
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap^Zj^Copyright No. 

Shelf. JfcL&A ^ Cs 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 

















































































BETTER THAN MEN 


f 


s 




“CHARLIE ” 








BETTER THAN MEN 

wL p , r u^ 

RUSH C? HAWKINS 


J. W. BOUTON 

TEN WEST TWENTY-EIGHTH STREET 

NEW YORK 
1896 







Copyright, 1896, by 
J. W. Bouton 


TO MY BELOVED AND LOVING WIFE, EVER FAITHFUL 
AND TRUE, WHOSE GOODNESS PASSETH 
ALL UNDERSTANDING 
















CONTENTS 


Explanatory i 

The Excursion 13 

Tim, the Dissipated . . . ' . .91 

Carlo, the Soldier 113 

Jeff, the Inquisitive 127 

Toby, the Wise 139 

Two Dogs 149 

Two Innocents Abroad . . . .165 

About Columbus, by an old showman . 1 7 1 

In Relation to Mysteries . . . .187 

*95 


Mysteries 






ft 


EXPLANATORY 





































EXPLANATORY 

HE title chosen for the following 



sketches, written for the purpose 


of presenting certain prominent 
characteristics of the lower animals 
worthy of the attention of the human 
animal, stands for rather a serious propo- 
sition which may be questioned by a 
majority of those readers whose kindly 
interest in our mute friends has not 
already been seriously awakened. 

To write so that those who read 
may infer that a certain selected number 
of so-called lower animals are better, by 
nature and conduct, in certain elemental 


virtues, than men, is, to say the least, 
rather imprudent, and to the optimistic 
student of human nature may appear 
irreverent to an unpardonable degree. 
Usually, to the minds of such observers, 
humanity is accepted for its traditional 
value, regardless of established condi- 
tions or inherent actualities. Such in- 
vestigators investigate only one side of 
their subject. They start out handi- 
capped with the old theory that in every 
respect the human animal is superior to 
every other, without attempting to 
analyze unseen interior conditions, 
whether natural or developed. 

In relation to natural conditions, 
the large majority of Christian sects are 
perfectly logical. They lay down as 
a clearly established fundamental fact 
that all human beings, owing to what 
they designate as Adam’s fall, are born 
into this world morally corrupt and 
completely depraved, but that they 


have within their control for ready ap- 
plication an appropriate panacea for a 
certain cure of these natural defects. 
But the optimist neither admits the dis- 
ease nor the necessity for cure ; he says 
always, at least inferentially, that all 
human beings come into the world in a 
state of innocence and purity, and that 
their few defects represent a certain 
amount of degeneration. 

Both of these theories may be 
wrong. It is possible that all children 
come into the world with a certain 
number of well-known natural qualities 
— good, bad, strong, and weak — in no 
two alike, and for which they are in no 
way responsible ; and that what they 
become in their mature years depends 
largely, if not entirely, upon home train- 
ing and the care bestowed upon them 
by the government under whose laws 
they exist. Strong, healthy, intellec- 
tual, and moral parents, aided by a wise 


and honestly administered government, 
assist each other in forming characters 
which make fine men and women. But 
without the combination of those pa- 
rental qualities ever actively engaged in 
instructing and controlling, sustained 
by a wise political organization, there is 
usually but little development of the 
higher and better qualities of our nature, 
either moral or intellectual. 

It is at this point that we may be 
permitted to cite the difference between 
the so-called upper and lower animal. 
In the dog and horse, notably, their 
better qualities are inherent, born with 
them, grow stronger with time, and 
their almost perfect and complete de- 
velopment is natural, and continues 
without aid, example, or instruction. 
Not more than one dog or horse in a 
thousand, if kindly treated and left to 
himself, would turn out vicious, and 
treat them as we may, no matter how 


4 


unjustly or cruelly, we can never de- 
prive them of their perfect integrity and 
splendid qualities of loyalty to master 
and friends. 

These most valuable of all moral 
qualities are natural to certain animals, 
and, no matter what man may do, they 
can never be extinguished. Although 
intangible, they are as much parts of 
the living organism of the horse and 
dog as are their eyes or the other or- 
gans needed for physical purposes. The 
affection of the dog for those whom he 
loves is actually boundless. It has 
neither taint of selfishness nor has it 
limits, and it can only be extinguished 
with the loss of life. The ever-willing 
horse will run himself to death to carry 
from danger, and especially from the 
pursuit of enemies, those who make 
use of his friendly aid. Other animals 
will do as much, but they never volun- 
teer for a dangerous service. 


5 


In India, where the elephant is 
used for domestic purposes and is some- 
times treated as a domestic animal, he 
has been known to protect children left 
in his charge, and in the performance 
of his daily task will yield willing 
obedience to orders ; but he is a know- 
ing and cautious constructionist, and 
seldom goes outside of the strict line of 
duty. He will always fight for his own 
master or friends when told, and some- 
times volunteers to encounter a danger 
to protect those around him who seek 
the aid of his superior powers. He is 
however, a natural conservative, and 
prefers peace to war. 

Many other animals are capable of 
becoming affectionate pets and interest- 
ing companions, but in no respect can 
they be compared with the dog, the 
horse, or the elephant. In their separate 
and individual combination of qualities 
which render them fit and useful com- 


6 


panions for man, they stand quite by 
themselves. The question of treating 
animals with kindly consideration is 
usually disposed of by saying they 
are not capable of appreciating kind 
treatment ; that their brain capacity is 
so limited in respect to quantity as to 
render them quite incapable of distin- 
guishing active kindness from passive 
indifference or even cruel treatment. 

This is the theory of the thought- 
less. 

The Newfoundland dog which, in 
the summer of 1866, I saw leap from a 
bridge into a rapid-running deep creek 
and rescue a two-year-old child from 
death, thought — and quickly at that. 
In a second he appreciated the value of 
a critical moment, and estimated not 
only the magnitude but the quality of 
the danger. No human being could 
have taken in the whole situation more 
completely or caused the physical or- 


7 


ganization to respond to the brain com- 
mand with greater celerity. The whole 
incident was over by the time the first 
on the spot of the would-be human 
rescuers had taken off his coat. 

Crowley, the remarkable chimpan- 
zee, who had his home in the Central 
Park Menagerie for about four years, 
proved to be a most convincing item of 
testimony in favor of the intellectual 
development of one of the lower ani- 
mals. The gradual and certain unfold- 
ing of his intelligence betrayed the 
presence of a quantity of natural brain- 
power almost equal to that of an intelli- 
gent child of his own age. 

Among his numerous accomplish- 
ments was a complete outfit of the 
table manners of the average well-bred 
human being. His accurate holding of 
knife, fork, and spoon, his perfect knowl- 
edge of their use, and the delicate appli- 
cation to his lips of the napkin, proved 
8 


the possession of exceptional knowl- 
edge and a well-ordered memory. 

The things he did and the words 
he tried to speak, for he made thous- 
ands of efforts every day to utter his 
thoughts, would make a convincing 
list of items all going to prove the pres- 
ence of a capacity for thinking quite 
worthy of consideration. 

In elaborating the various powers 
which he employed in his methods of 
expression he showed remarkable in- 
genuity. He, no doubt, reflected upon 
his deficiencies, and thought the whole 
matter over with reference to means of 
communication with those he cared 
to converse with, and then, from out 
the store of his natural capacities, in- 
vented an extensive combination of 
hand and feet signs with the variety of 
sounds at his command, which finally 
enabled him to make himself perfectly 
understood by those about him. 


9 


The intellectual development of 
Crowley, of which I have given only 
an inadequate idea, came from kind 
treatment and constant contact with 
his keeper and the director of the men- 
agerie, both of whom were his devoted 
friends and teachers. 

These little character sketches, as 
they may perhaps be described, were 
written for the purpose of awakening 
the personal interest of those who may 
read them, with the hope also of en- 
listing their active influence in behalf of 
spreading abroad a better understand- 
ing of the nature of our four-footed 
friends and servants, who give so much 
and receive so little in return. The 
better appreciation of their exception- 
ally fine qualities will surely lead to 
closer relations between them and their 
masters, and, in the end, insure better 
treatment for those humble and con- 
fiding creatures which the Creator has 


placed so completely in the power of 
man. 

Fiction plays but a little part in 
these pages. It has long been a source 
of pleasure to me to note the marks of 
intelligence in the animals that we ad- 
mit to our companionship, that we 
make a part of our family rule and asso- 
ciation. These sketches are nearly all 
based upon personal experiences and 
observations of my own. They are 
my plea for their greater civil rights— 
at least in the way of kindness and ap- 
preciation. Incidentally I have given 
such local color to the stories as they 
require. The first sketch, for example, 
has for its frame the pleasant hills and 
valleys of Vermont. It recalls old days 
worth the recording and a people of 
pure Anglo-Saxon blood worth a last- 
ing memory. 


R. C. H. 



THE EXCURSION 








% 






\ 











THE EXCURSION 

A PARTICULAR summer, back in 
the fifties, I spent in one of the 
beautiful valley villages of the 
“Green Mountain State.” The old- 
fashioned, unpretending country tavern 
was comfortable and the air and scenery 
all that could be desired. The amuse- 
ments, or rather occupations, afforded 
to the sojourners, aside from reading 
the solid literature of the period, were 
neither novel nor exhausting, but they 
gave pleasure, were reposeful, and were 
innocent enough to have satisfied the 
code of the most exacting moralist. The 


"3 



daily routine was limited, not costly, and 
within easy reach. 

Of course, the first rural recreation 
was to fish in streams where there were 
no fish ; to climb the highest hills as 
often as possible ; argue religious, polit- 
ical, and commercial questions with the 
numerous oracles of the village, and 
diagnose the autumn crop question 
with the farmers. These occupations 
were staple commodities, always in 
stock and on tap ready to flow. 

The good people of the town were 
very much astonished when they found 
1 had discovered an additional occupa- 
tion. I had made the acquaintance of 
all the town dogs, and found them a 
most entertaining and sociable lot of 
easy-going vagabonds. The majority 
were much given to loafing, barking at 
strangers and the passing vehicles, and 
not over-anxious to earn the scant 
meals grudgingly doled out to them by 


14 


the thrifty housewives, who frequently 
addressed them in terms not of a com- 
plimentary nature. 

Those were not the days of roman- 
tic names for dogs. The New England 
repertoire for the canine race had been 
handed down, in an unbroken line, 
from a remote Puritan period. If a dog 
was of a large size he was sure to re- 
spond to the name of Tige, Rover, or 
Lion, and, if small, he was usually 
adorned with the name of Skip, Fido, or 
Zip. In those days there were neither 
kennel clubs nor dog exhibitions, and 
the high-flown English names, such as 
attach to the canine blue-bloods of 
to-day, were unknown. 

Within the ranks of this lazy, good- 
for-nothing, good-natured tribe, with its 
headquarters in my particular village, 
was a characteristic specimen of a per- 
fect nobody’s dog. He was not un- 
pleasant to the vision, but, on the 


'5 


contrary, rather attractive. He was of 
a light brindle color, with a black 
nose, and was blessed with a pair of 
beautiful, sympathetic, and expressive 
dark-brown eyes, that had a frank way 
of looking clear into the eyes of who- 
ever addressed him. But he was with- 
out pedigree, industry, or hope, cared 
nothing for worldly possessions, was 
always ready to wag a hearty response 
to every salutation, and was an ever- 
flowing fountain of good nature and 
kindness, but not devoid of character. 
Along with all his apparent indifference 
he had his strong points, and good ones 
at that. 

His great weakness was the wood- 
chuck season. No sportsman was ever 
more watchful for the return of the 
shooting period than was Rover for the 
opening of the first woodchuck hole. 
For days before the first opening he 
would range the fields very much after 

16 


the manner of the truly accomplished 
shopping woman of a large city in 
search of opportunities on a “bargain 
day.” He had the keenest nose for his 
favorite game of any dog in the town, 
and so devoted was he to his particular 
sport, that frequently, while the season 
lasted, after a hard day’s work, he 
would go to bed with an empty stom- 
ach, his chance mistress having issued 
an edict to the effect that the kitchen 
door was to be closed at a certain hour 
— Rover or no Rover. And so it came 
to pass that our devoted sportsman 
often went to his couch in the shed a 
very hungry dog, not happy for the 
moment, but always full of hope for 
the coming morning. 

While his sporting season lasted he 
had but one occupation. As soon as 
he had licked his breakfast plate clean, 
even to the last mite of food, he 
would start off for new adventures, 


'7 


and, as soon as he had succeeded in 
finding a new subterranean abode of 
his favorite game, he would give a joy- 
ous bark, and commence a most vigor- 
ous digging, and, if the soil happened to 
be of a soft nature, he would soon bury 
his body so as to leave no part of his 
belongings in sight but the tip end of a 
very quick-moving tail amid the debris 
of flying soil. If called from his pursuit 
he would come out of his hole wagging 
most joyously and saying as plainly as 
possible: “I wish you would turn in 
and help a fellow.” 

He had never been known to cap- 
ture a “chuck,” but he had his fun all 
the same. 

There is a story of a Frenchman, 
who, when walking in the woods, 
heard the whistle of a woodcock and 
thereupon became possessed of an ar- 
dent desire pour la cbasse. He equipped 
himself by borrowing a gun from one 


friend, a dog from another, a game-bag 
from a third, and the making of a com- 
plete shooting outfit from several oth- 
ers. Early in the morning, after the 
delusive whistle, he was up and off to 
the woods. Filled with eager expecta- 
tion he tramped hills and swamps the 
whole day through without seeing a 
bird or getting a shot, and returned to 
the hotel much the worse for the wear 
and tear of the search, but, Frenchman 
like, was vivacious and cheerful. An 
English friend asked to see the inside of 
his game-bag. “Ah,” answered the 
would-be huntsman, “1 did not get ze 
leetle — ze becasse, I did hear his whistle, 
mais j'ai eu ma chasse all ze same, and 
I am very happie.” And so it was with 
Rover. He saw where his would-be 
victim was located, enjoyed the plea- 
sure of hope, and had a day’s digging. 

The other dogs of the village were 
not ambitious, save at meal-time, when 


> 9 


they were vigorously punctual, but 
very unpunctual when there was any- 
thing useful to do, such as going after 
the cows at milking-time, driving enter- 
prising pigs out of the garden, chasing 
the hens from the front entrance of 
the house, and the like. As a rule 
they were content to pass the sunny 
hours of the day beneath protecting 
shades, resting their lazy carcasses upon 
the softest patch of greensward to be 
found, and they were usually experts 
in the art of finding such spots. It 
was not so, however, with Rover. He 
was an active dog, without a lazy bone 
in his body, always on the alert for an 
occupation, no matter if sometimes use- 
ful. Take them, however, for all in 
all, this worthless pack of four-footed 
worthies were not a bad sort of a lot. 
All save one were good-natured and 
sociable. That exception was a mal- 
tese-colored abridgment of a mastiff, 


20 


short-haired and old. He was the prop- 
erty of one of the village doctors, who 
was a pestiferous Whig, with the repu- 
tation of being the “tongueyist man 
in the county, if not in the State.” 
He carried chips upon both shoulders, 
was the proprietor of a loud voice — 
plenty of it — and was always ready for a 
war between tongues. He “argered” 
for the sake of argument, but his ancient 
“Spot,” with a thickened throat and 
wheezy voice, could only keep up a 
running pro forma barking accompan- 
iment while his master “downed” his 
opponent. The old dog had uncon- 
sciously contracted his master’s habit 
of controversy, and felt that he must 
help him out. It is due to the memory 
of that ancient canine to record that he 
attended strictly to his own affairs, and 
would brook no interference from frivo- 
lous idle dogs with no particular occu- 
pation, nor would he associate with 


21 


them when off duty. When not with 
his master, he kept inside his own 
fence, and barked and made disagree- 
able faces at all would-be intruders. 

As bearing upon the story that will 
develop, I may add that besides the 
dogs there are, in Vermont, other four- 
footed friends and servants of man 
worthy of consideration. The Vermont 
“ Morgan horse ” is one of the acknowl- 
edged native “institutions,” and no 
lover of that animal has ever made the 
intimate acquaintance of one of his 
strain without being fascinated with his 
delicate, refined beauty, affectionate 
disposition, intelligence, endurance, and 
willingness to serve. 

1 was brought up with them, and 
used to romp and race with the colts, 
ride the mothers without saddle, bridle, 
or halter, and purloin sugar and salt to 
feed them when the “old folks were 
not looking.” Among my happiest 


22 


hours were those of my childhood and 
boyhood spent in close association with 
the great groups of animals that lived 
upon the hills of the old farm at the 
“ crotch in the roads.” Calves, among 
the most beautiful of all the young ani- 
mals, with their great soft eyes and in- 
nocent faces, were a source of infinite 
joy to me, and even the silly and unin- 
tellectual sheep always appealed to my 
affections and sense of protection. 
These 1 regarded as wards to love and 
protect, but the dogs and Morgan 
horses were my petted friends and com- 
panions. From their habitual display 
of good faith, perfect integrity and 
affection I learned all the lessons appli- 
cable to every-day life that have been of 
value to me. From man I could have 
learned the arts of deceit and cunning, 
selfishness and want of feeling, and the 
practise of vanity, but never a single 
quality which came to me from the 


23 


habitual association with the honest 
four-footed friends of my youth. 

The people of my native State, 
among their other fine characteristics, 
have always been noted for their kind- 
ness to animals, which fact alone stands 
for a very elevated plane of civilization. 
Ever since nearly a century ago, when 
the Morgan horse first came to them, 
he has been an object of their affection, 
and it is undoubtedly, to a great extent, 
owing to that creditable fact that he has 
always been the same charming animal 
that he is to-day. 

That the equine hero of this sketch 
was not of that noble breed will not 
detract from his special virtues or im- 
pair my passing tribute to the Vermont 
horse and his master. The one selected 
for my riding excursions was the only 
saddle-horse of repute in the county ; 
he belonged to a livery stable, and was 
of the “calico ” red and white sort, tall, 


24 


long of body, sound of legs and feet, 
with large, liquid, expressive eyes, 
small ears, and a beautiful open nostril. 
His pedigree was unknown, and no one 
in the village could say where he came 
from. He had been turned out lame 
from a “travelling show” the year 
before, and had been bought for a song. 
Such only was his brief known history. 
To his physical beauties were added the 
higher qualities of head and heart in 
abundance. He was the sort of a beau- 
tiful creature that could not have done 
a mean act. Nature never furnished 
him tools for that kind of work. 

He was effusively affectionate, and 
his intelligence was of a high order for 
a horse. We took a great fancy to 
each other, and both of us to Rover, 
who once in a while could be coaxed 
from his pursuit of “ chucks” to take a 
run with us over the country roads. 

Thus we became chosen friends, 


25 


and I selected them as companions for 
a recreative excursion which I had 
planned, and which we shall now re- 
trace. 

An early breakfast for man, dog 
and horse, and off. The general plan 
was to ride early and late, and rest dur- 
ing the hot hours of the middle portion 
of the day. A village with a decent 
“ tavern” for the night was the objec- 
tive point for each evening, and the 
usual daily distance, made at an easy 
canter, was about twenty miles. Be- 
tween each stretch of three or four 
miles there was a halt for a dismount, a 
rest for the animals, and a leg exercise 
for the rider. Rover was always glad 
for a loll beneath the shady trees, but 
“Charlie,” my calico friend, improved 
his opportunities for a nibble of the ten- 
der grass and sprouts within his reach. 
During the first two or three days 1 had 
to retrace my steps to remount, but I 
2 6 


soon succeeded in making my com- 
panions understand the nature and 
object of a call, and, before the tour was 
half over, they would not permit me to 
walk out of their sight. Rover was on 
the watch, and, as soon as he saw me 
disappearing in the distance, would 
give the alarm, and then both would 
start off on a smart run to overtake me. 

Upon one occasion, after climbing a 
sharp hill, I had left them at the begin- 
ning of a long level piece of road, and 
had walked on. After going about half 
a mile, I met a large drove of cattle. 
When I had succeeded in passing 
through and beyond it, my attention 
was attracted by a confused noise in the 
rear. Upon looking back I discovered 
a great cloud of dust, and amidst it a 
confusion of moving horns and tails, 
while soon there appeared, racing 
through the excited mass of bovines at 
the top of his speed, Charlie, accom- 


27 


panied by his faithful attendant barking 
at the top of his voice. The cattle were 
excited and frightened up to the point 
of jumping and running they knew not 
where. Some went over fences, others 
through them, while the main body 
kept to the road, and, for a consider- 
able distance, carried everything before 
them. 1 realized at once that my zeal- 
ous companions had got me into 
trouble. 

For the information of readers not 
acquainted with the average “drove- 
yer ” of forty and fifty years ago, it is 
necessary to record that he was not the 
sort of an individual calculated to adorn 
refined society, and the language used 
by those in charge of this particular 
“drove” was more characteristic for its 
strength than for its elegance or polite- 
ness. 1 tried to appease their wrath, 
apologized for the unseemly conduct of 
dog and horse, alleged sudden fright, 

28 


marshalled a fine array of other excuses, 
and finally succeeded in neutralizing 
the flow of their ire— just a little. But 
the chief spokesman was not satisfied 
with excuses and soft words ; he was a 
materialist, and wanted to know, then 
and there, who was to put up the fence 
and pay for the damage done by the 
trampling down of growing crops. Un- 
der the circumstances the query did not 
seem to be an unreasonable one, and 1 
suggested that the better course to pur- 
sue would be for the authors of the mis- 
chief to make terms with the owner of 
the crops, state facts, and await his de- 
cision. 

The season happened to be be- 
tween planting and harvest, and “the 
men-folks,” we were told, “are up 
on yender hill mending fence, and 
won’t be down till dinner.” The head 
“droveyer,” impatient to keep with his 
“ drove,” would not wait, and informed 


2 9 


me, in a rather emphatic sort of way, 
that I would have to wait and “settle 
up.” There was no appeal in sight 
from his decision. So he went and I 
waited. 

The hot part of the day had arrived, 
and it was within about two hours “till 
dinner.” After “hitchin” the horse 
in the barn, away from the flies, 1 sug- 
gested the loan of an axe. This excited 
surprise, and the question came from the 
head of the interior of that particular 
domestic establishment: “What are 
you going to do with an axe ? ” 1 an- 
swered : “ I’m going to mend the fence 
where those cattle broke through.” 
This feather came very near breaking 
the back of the housewife, and her 
sense of the ridiculous was excited up 
to the point of explosion, but she was 
too well bred to give the laugh direct, 
full in the face, and contented herself by 
making an acute mental survey of my 


3 ° 


physical points. She measured with 
her eye the hands and girth of chest, 
and made a close calculation as to the 
amount of biceps assigned to each arm, 
and after some reflection, said : '“You’ll 
find an old axe in the woodshed ; you 
can take it and try and patch up the 
places, and, when you hear the horn, 
you can come in and eat with the rest 
of the folks.” I started off, filled with 
the pride born of knowledge, and confi- 
dent of a coming success, but the even 
flow of my happiness was soon dis- 
turbed by a sound from the upper regis- 
ter of a very loud, shrill voice, saying, 
“ Don’t split your feet open with that 
are axe.” This was like a small streak 
of ice water down the spinal column, 
but I was on my mettle and not to be 
discouraged. The vacant spaces in the 
broken fence were encountered and 
yielded to superior force, and a fairish 
amount of success was accomplished 
v 


about the time the welcome tones of 
the sonorous horn announced the hour 
for feeding. 

I was introduced to the “men- 
folks ” as the stranger whose dog and 
horse had “scart the cattle inter the 
oats.” At first it was easy to see that 1 
was not regarded with favor, but, as the 
dinner proceeded, and as anecdotes suc- 
ceeded each other about men, things 
and far-off countries 1 had seen, the 
Green Mountain ice began to melt, and, 
by the time the “Injun puddin’”was 
emptied out of its bag, cordial relations 
were established. The two bright-faced 
boys had become communicative, and 
the older members of the family had 
forgotten for the time the damage to the 
oats. 

The dinner ended, I requested a 
board of survey and an estimate. The 
first relevant observation in relation to 
the case before the court came from 


32 


the grandfather : “ Well, 1 declare, I 
couldn’t done it better myself. I didn’t 
know you city folk could work so. 
Where did you l’arn to mend fences ? ” 
This first witness for the defence 
produced a marked effect upon the 
jury. The next point of observation 
was the field of damaged oats. The 
eldest son, a Sunday-school-sort of boy, 
exclaimed : “ By pepper, they are 
pretty well trampled down, ain’t they ? 
No cradle can git under ’em; guess’ll 
have ter go at ’em with the sickle, but 
we can save the heft of ’em by bending 
our backs a little.” 

During the investigation not a word 
was uttered about compensation, and, 
after leaving the field, the conversation 
ran into generalities ; but before we 
reached the house the grandfather’s 
curiosity got the better of his timidity, 
and he asked : “ Where did you l’arn to 
mend fences ? ” When 1 told him that 


33 


my name was , that I was a grand- 
son of , was born at the “ Old H. 

Place at the crotch of the roads in the 

town of P learned to mend fences 

there, etc., etc., he had great difficulty 
in suppressing the dimensions of the 
proud satisfaction my information had 
produced. In his mind 1 was a degen- 
erate Vermonter, living in the great City 
of New York, but had not forgotten 
the lessons learned at the old farm. I 
knew how to mend a fence, and that, 
for him, was my certificate of character. 

From the moment of my disclosures, 
I was admitted to the inner family 
circle, and there was no more farm- 
work for the rest of the day, while the 
afternoon hours were devoted to remin- 
iscences of the olden times: “Ah,” 
said the old grandfather, “when I first 
laid eyes on ye, 1 thought I’d seen 
somebody like ye afore, and I remem- 
ber it was your grandfather on yer 


34 


father’s side. He was a soldier of the 
Revolutionary War in one of the Rhode 
Island ridgiments, and my father be- 
longed to one from Massachusetts ; 
both served till the end of the war, and 
then emigrated to Vermont, together. 
My father settled on this farm, where I 
was born in 1790; your grandfather 

took up some land in P , and till 

the end of his days was the best school- 
master and surveyor anywhere round 
these parts. He was a master-hand at 
poetry, and used to write sarcastical 
varses agin the lop-sided cusses he 
hated. There’s alius some mean critters 
in these country towns, who take ad- 
vantage of poor folks that ain’t very 
smart and cheat ’em outer their prop- 
erty. They used to feel mighty mean, 
I tell ye, when they read your grand- 
father’s varses about ’em. I heerd old 
Si Simmons, up to town meeting only 
last year, telling about a mean old 


35 


critter down in P by the name of 

Podges and how your grandfather writ 
a varse for his gravestun, and I remem- 
ber it was about like this : 

“ 4 Here lies the body of Podges Seth, 

The biggest knave that e’er drew breath ; 

He lived like a hog and died like a brute, 

And has gone to the d 1 beyond dispute.’ ” 

1 was able to respond in kind, for I 
happened to remember about another 
local poet, who hated a surviving son 
of this rural vampire, who quite worthily 
perpetuated the detestable qualities of 
his defunct parent, and, when he died, 
as he did not many years after his 
father, the other local poet, not to be 
outdone by my grandfather, composed 
the following verse as a fitting epitaph : 

“ Here lies the body of Podges Ed, 

We all rejoice to know he’s dead; 

Too bad for Heaven, too mean for Hell, 
And where he’s gone no one can tell.” 

36 


In the “Old Times” there were 
strong, honest, rugged characters 
among the Vermont hills. The ma- 
jority of them were men of plain speech 
and unyielding contempt for meanness 
in any form. A goodly number of the 
early settlers in the eastern counties 
were soldiers of the Revolution who 
had emigrated to the new State soon 
after its close, and they brought with 
them the simple, manly habits and 
ways of thinking which are character- 
istic of service in the field. Many were 
the anecdotes told of them that day — 
the day of the accident to the oats — 
very much to the edification of the 
juniors, who were all eyes and ears, at 
least for that occasion. 

The old house at the “ crotch of the 
roads,” when I was a boy, was the Sat- 
urday and Sunday halting-place for the 
old soldiers of my own and several of 
the neighboring towns. The larder was 


37 


always well-supplied, and the barrels of 
cider that lined a capacious cellar were 
ready to respond to every call. Under 
the influence of an abundant supply of 
that exhilarating beverage, the fighting 
over of old battles was always vigorous 
and sometimes vividly realistic. 

The most famous of the local veter- 
ans, of my time, was known among his 

neighbors as “Uncle Daniel V .” 

He was a Lexington-Bunker Hill man, 
who had served till the end of the war. 
As 1 remember him, he was a most inter- 
esting character, humorous, with a good 
memory, a famous drinker of hard cider, 
and a notable singer of the patriotic sol- 
dier songs of the “ Seventy-six” period. 

I can recall, in his showing “how the 
Yankee boys flaxed the Britishers,” how 
he would shoulder one of his canes — he 
was a rheumatic and walked with two 
— and march up and down the broad 
kitchen of the old house, going through 

38 


the motions of loading, aiming and fir- 
ing at an imaginary enemy, greatly to 
my childish delight, for those were the 
first fierce war’s alarms 1 had ever wit- 
nessed, and 1 can never forget how my 
imagination was fired ; nor how ar- 
dently I wished I had been at Lexing- 
ton and Bunker Hill, where “we gave 
it to the Red Coats.” Uncle Daniel 
was far too good a patriot to say any- 
thing about the return compliments, 
“How the Red Coats gave it to us,” 
upon one of those historic fields. Since 
his day 1 have learned that one of his 
glorification songs, which professed to 
give a correct account of one particular 
Yankee victory, was not in strict accord 
with the truths of history. I could 
recall for my host but a single verse of 
all the songs he used to sing, and it 
savors so much of the camp that I had 
some misgivings about repeating it be- 
fore Christians, but upon being hard 


}9 


pressed by the boys and seeing approv- 
ing glances from other directions, con- 
cluded to go ahead. 

The verse I remember is one from a 
song supposed to have been sung by 
British soldiers who were in the retreat 
after the defeat at Concord, April 19, 
1775, and runs thus: 

“ From behind the hedges and the ditches, 
And every tree and stump, 

We would see the sons of 

And infernal Yankees jump.” 

I also remember, vaguely, something 
of another Revolutionary camp song 
which depicted the grief of the soldiers 
of Burgoyne’s army. The refrain was 
like this : 

“We have got too far from Canada, 

Run, boys, run.” 

When we had exhausted the Revo- 
lution, it was time for an afternoon start. 
For more than an hour Rover had man- 


40 


ifested his impatience by numerous wag- 
gings and by pawing vigorously at the 
legs of my trousers whenever 1 looked 
his way, and from the barn there came 
sounds of hoof-poundings and impatient 
whinnerings — loud and plain calls for a 
move. So, after many protests against 
the going, a move to go was made. 

Before the advance upon the barn 
was fairly under way the youngster, 
who had been an attentive listener, de- 
cided upon a search for information, and, 
commanding a halt, informed me that 
“Old Jim Noyes, who lived over in the 
Snow neighborhood, has two boys in 
Boston ; the oldest was up here in June 
and told us there was a steeple down in 
Boston as high as that old ‘Jackson 
Hill ’ of ours, but 1 didn’t b’leve a word 
of it. Hosea Doten, the biggest man at 
figgers and surveying in this part of 
Vermont, told mother last year that Old 
Jack was 1,200 feet above the sea and 


4 ' 


more than five hundred above where we 
are standing ; now, there ain’t no such 
steeple in Boston nor anywhere else. 
What do folks want such a high steeple 
for, anyway ? And if meetin’ houses 
must have steeples, why won’t fifty 
feet do as well as five hundred ? Some 
folks say that bells are hung up in stee- 
ples so God can hear them ring for folks 
to go to meetin’ Sunday mornin’. What 
odds would two or three hundred feet 
make to God ? He can hear a bell just 
as well in a fifty-foot steeple as in one 
five hundred feet high. Meetin’ folks 
could save a lot of money by building 
low steeples. And besides, they ain’t 
no use ; nobody could live in ’em five 
hundred feet up, and it would be too 
high to hang a thermometer on unless 
you had a spy-glass to look at it with. 
1 don’t b’leve in such high steeples ; 
they cost lots of money and ain’t of no 
use.” 


42 


I assured the young philosopher of 
my approval of his ideas about the use- 
lessness of high steeples, and told him 
that Boston was not the owner of one 
five hundred feet high. This informa- 
tion was a source of immense satisfac- 
tion. “ I was right all the time,” he 
added, “ and knew that Jim Noyes was 
giving us lies just as fast as his tongue 
could work ’em out. Do all Vermont 
boys that go to Boston learn to talk like 
him? There’s a lot gone down there 
from about here. Some of ’em are up 
on a visit every once in a while, and 
spend the most of their spare time in 
telling such silly stories. I guess they 
think they can stuff us country folks 
just like Thanksgiving turkeys. What 
makes ’em lie so ? The boys round 
here, if they talked like they do, would 
get licked a dozen times a week and no 
decent folks would have anything to do 
with ’em. I suppose it’s all right. Boys, 


43 


when they git to Boston, have got to 
lie to keep their places and git a living. 
Grandfather don’t take it to heart 
so much as the rest of us. He says 
lying is the biggest part of the show, 
and the longer we live the more on’t 
we’ll see.” 

The day was well along, and the sun 
showed a decided intention of soon dis- 
appearing behind the top of “ Old Jack,” 
before 1 insisted on departing. Then 
the calico horse was watered, saddled 
and bridled, and brought out for inspec- 
tion and admiration. His appearance 
elicited expressions of unbounded ad- 
miration, his great, soft, brown, and 
beautifully expressive eyes, his amia- 
bility and active intelligence coming in 
for no end of complimentary remarks. 
The boys were especially enthusiastic 
and proposed a “ swap for a four-year- 
old raised on the place.” 

The oats question was again brought 


44 


up for adjudication, and, after consider- 
able argument, the party owning the 
injured crop determined to leave the 
amount of damage an open question 
until the individual responsible for it 
could “come around agin.” 

The moment had arrived for the re- 
luctant good-by, the grasp of hands, the 
mount and the start, amid great excite- 
ment and noise on the part of the ani- 
mals ; and then commenced a most 
exhilarating run of more than fifteen 
miles over a softish dirt road, through 
a series of lovely valleys, to the little 

village of D , where we called a 

halt for the night, which was destined 
to be prolonged into the orthodox Sun- 
day rest of the place and period. 

By this time the organization of three 
had crystallized into exact form, and 
without effort had settled into an habit- 
ual daily routine, and the incidents of 
to-day were quite certain to be repeated 


45 


to-morrow. There was always plenty 
of time, evenings and middle parts of 
days, for talking with the "folks” — 
oracles about the village taverns — who, 
like the old-time bar-room Major and 
Judge of the Slave States, were always 
on hand and on tap for a copious out- 
pouring of village gossip and political 
information. In justice to the Major 
and Judge of the old days of the South, 
it must be written that they were usu- 
ally waiting for another sort of a tap- 
flow to be turned on, from a tap not 
of their own. 

It is doubtful if the happy trio ever 
appreciated the greatness of this three 
weeks’ manifestation of themselves, 
through which they were unambi- 
tious but undoubted involuntary heroes 
among the country folk. John Gilpin 
could not have been more fortunate in 
the way of attracting attention from all 
beholders ; and "the more they gazed 

46 


the more the wonder grew,” and the 
puzzle of forty years ago, in the villages 
through which we passed, of “What is 
it, anyway ? ” remains as profound a 
mystery as ever. 

In some places 1 was regarded as a 
very considerable personage on a secret 
mission of great import ; at other times 
the saddle-valise was accused of con- 
taining a supply of a newly discovered 
life-saving pill; but, generally, we were 
mistaken by the wise know-it-alls of 
the village as the advance agents of a 
coming circus ; if not, why the calico 
horse ? which to the rural mind, from 
the most remote period, has been asso- 
ciated with the gorgeous, gilded band- 
wagon, spangles, and sawdust. The 
fortunate suspicion of circus affiliations 
brought to us a measure of attention 
far beyond our merits; both animals 
were treated with the greatest respect, 
as possible performers of high standing, 


A 7 


and upon several occasions I was asked 
to “ make ’em show off.” 

The summer Saturday afternoon and 
evening in Vermont is always the same. 
At the “stores” business flourishes, 
and profitable activity reigns supreme 
until late into the evening hours. On 
the farm the opposite is the rule, a 
general “slicking up for Sunday” and 
the doing of “ odd chores ” around the 
house and barn is the order of the day, 
the whole being a fitting prelude to the 
coming Sunday, which is always what 
it ought to be, not the Lord’s any more 
than another day, nor anybody else’s 
day, but a day of rest, pure and simple, 
for all the creatures of the Creator. Ever 
since 1 can remember, Vermonters, with- 
out asking leave of this or that au- 
thority have chosen their own way of 
Sunday resting. 

In no state west of the Rocky 
Mountains do the beauties of nature 

48 


make a stronger appeal for human ap- 
preciation than in Vermont, and never 
are they seen to better advantage than 
upon a quiet summer Sunday morning, 
when the brilliant blue sky is filled 
with light, and all the world seems 
to be at peace. The clear, limpid 
streams move silently on as though 
controlled by the all-pervading spirit of 
rest ; the leaves of the trees, yielding 
to the universal feeling of repose, keep 
silence with the rest of nature, and over 
all there is the fascinating power of 
wondrous beauties abounding not made 
by the hands of man. Such days are 
made for rest and reflection, when 
nature invites us to commune with her 
works, that we may know more of 
them and be able to rise to a higher 
and more ennobling appreciation of her 
beauties. The quiet, suggestive New 
England summer Sunday morning’s ap- 
peal is nature’s most beneficent call to 


her children to come to her and search 
for knowledge of things which lead 
through untrodden paths, where, at 
every step, new pleasures unfold to the 
view for our instruction and enjoy- 
ment. 

Upon such occasions we yield to 
the influence of the silent voice and the 
unseen hand, and unconsciously follow 
the beckonings of a wingless fairy, 
Nature’s ever-present handmaid, who, 
without our knowledge, leads us to a 
new Fairyland, where new beauties 
abound, and where countless joys are 
within the reach of the most humble 
subjects of the Creator. 

Such a typical Sunday as the one 
1 have attempted to describe followed 
the Saturday after our arrival at the little 

village of D . The first duties of 

the day were to our four-footed friends, 
and then came the standard breakfast 
of the place and period for the superior 


5 ° 


being. Fifty years ago this was very 
much more of a living Yankee institution 
than now. In those days the French 
menu, much to the satisfaction of those 
practitioners in the dental line, had not 
penetrated within the borders of the 
New England rural districts. I remem- 
ber distinctly the color and taste of the 
native bean-coffee, the solidity of the 
morning pie-crusts, the crumble after 
the crash of the cookey, and the greasy 
substantiality of the venerated dough- 
nut. All these we had in abundance, 
with the incidental “apple sass” thrown 
in between courses that lovely Sunday 
morning, forty-one years ago this writ- 
ing. 

The town of D , happened to be 

the shire-town of the county in which 
it was situated. At the time of my 
brief sojourn there, the Supreme Court 
was in session and one of the judges 
had the head of the table at the hotel, 


5 ' 


while I, being a supposed distinguished 
stranger, with “boughten clothes ’’and 
a fair expanse of starched shirt-front, 
was given the seat of honor at his right 
hand. 1 found him a regulation speci- 
men of the real original Yankee judge, 
quaint of speech, humorous, and intel- 
ligent, and not a profound believer in 
the oft-alleged superior qualities of the 
animal said to have been made in the 
image of his maker. 

Our conversation started and con- 
tinued for some time in the usual way ; 
the weather and condition of crops be- 
ing used as an excuse for the opening 
sentences, but, before the breakfast was 
over, a shrewd series of inoffensive di- 
rect questions, deftly put, brought to 
the surface the fact that I had travelled 
in strange and far-away countries. 

Punctually at the usual hour and 
minute, the Sunday bells commenced 
their weekly call to the faithful, and the 


52 


Judge interrupted the easy flow of his 
entertaining conversation to ask how I 
usually spent Sunday. I told him I had 
no particular way of doing that day, but 
usually permitted original sin to take its 
course. That idea seemed to strike him 
favorably and brought out a proposition 
that we should take to the woods and 
see which could tell the biggest story, 
he at the same time remarking : “ You 
have travelled so much that by this time 
you ought to be an interesting liar. On 
such a beautiful day as this there is no 
excuse for bothering the parson. Some- 
times on a cold chilly day he is a real 
comfort ; he warms us up with the heat 
of the brimstone to come.” 

That Sunday made its mark. It was 
a red-letter day never to be forgotten. 
My new acquaintance proved to be a 
philosopher and thinker of no ordinary 
dimensions. He was saturated with 
the teachings of Socrates, Cicero, Mar- 


53 


cus Aurelius, and Gibbon, and I sus- 
pected he had taken a sly glance or two 
at Lucretius and Voltaire. He had ready 
for use, at command, the essence of the 
entire teachings of his favorite authors, 
and could quote whole pages from their 
works. 

While we were stretched out upon a 
bed of dead leaves, looking up through 
the living ones to the open sky above, 
my faithful companions, feeling the 
quieting influence of the day, were near 
us, tranquilly enjoying the shade, and 
acting as though taking in a conversa- 
tion which they seemed to understand. 
As with men we often meet, this silence 
was passing them off for being wiser 
than they were. My canine compan- 
ion was close to my side with my hand 
gently resting upon his head, while my 
calico equine friend was enjoying the 
grateful shade of a broad spreading ma- 
ple, and busying himself with switch- 


54 


ing away at speculative flies in search 
of opportunities for luxurious dinners. 

The satisfactory contentment of the 
two animals attracted the attention of 
my judicial companion, and he asked 
me to explain the secret of our close 
companionship. He was surprised 
when 1 told him there was no secret 
about it, that 1 treated my four-footed 
friends as I would human beings ; 
looked after their general welfare, saw 
that they were sufficiently fed with the 
proper food, talked to them in kindly 
tones of voice, gave them tid-bits now 
and then that I knew they were fond 
of, patted them approvingly, never 
scolded or used a whip, and, finally, 
spent a great deal of my time in their 
company. I further explained that in- 
tellectually I regarded them as being on 
a plane with children — to be looked 
after, to be kindly treated, and to have 
their mental faculties developed to the 


55 


full extent of the separate capacity of 
each, and, that by pursuing such a 
course, we could obtain the best service 
and an amount of affection and com- 
panionship that would amply recom- 
pense us for all of our trouble.” 

“Well,” he exclaimed, “this is all 
news to me ! There is logic and good 
sound sense in your whole scheme, and 
it’s strange 1 never thought of it before. 
You have studied the subject of intel- 
lectual development in animals and got- 
ten something out of it 1 had never 
dreamed of. Ever since I have been 
able to think my head has been filled 
with common law, Court decisions, and 
the Statute in such case made and pro- 
vided, and I have had but little time, 
and, possibly, less disposition, to in- 
dulge in sentiment. 1 suppose you 
know the people of your native state 
well enough to appreciate their strong 
and weak points. The Vermonter, as a 
56 


rule, does not waste any time upon sen- 
timentality; he is too busy digging out 
a living from these old hills and from 
between the rocks for those dependent 
upon him to waste much time cultivat- 
ing the sentimental side. He is quite 
apt to take the utilitarian view of most 
earthly matters. His horse he regards 
as a useful animal, to be well fed and 
comfortably housed in order to pro- 
long his usefulness as much as possible; 
and his dog he looks upon as a use- 
less companion — not worthy of respect, 
comfortable lodging, or good food, un- 
less he earns all three by bringing up 
the cows at night and chasing all ma- 
rauders from grain and planted fields 
during the day. Your side of the ani- 
mal question is a new one, and I am 
going to commence operations upon 
my faithful burden-carrier as soon as 
we reach the stable. I’d be mightily 
pleased to have him walk along with 


57 


me and put his velvety nose against 
my face as I have seen your calico 
friend do with you. All men, all real 
men, properly put together, are fond of 
being loved, and are willing to take it 
in wholesale doses, and a little dog and 
horse — when the women are not around 
— thrown in to fill between the chinks, 
helps to make a perfect whole. We 
men are a careless, selfish lot, who 
leave mothers, sisters, wives, daugh- 
ters, and dogs and horses to do the 
most of the loving, and accept it as a 
matter of right, without making the re- 
turns which are their due. They trudge 
along in silence, giving us their affection, 
and work on, chiefly for us, when they 
ought to kick. In giving me this Sun- 
day lesson you have opened up a new 
lead in my make-up, and 1 intend to 
explore it until 1 develop a new de- 
posit of humanity, and I’ll commence 
by stealing a lump of sugar for ‘ Old 
58 


Whitey ’ the next time I leave the tav- 
ern table, and, instead of having it 
charged in the bill, I’ll open a new ac- 
count, and credit my first theft to the 
cause of animal development.” 

The next morning 1 parted from my 
judicial acquaintance, he volunteering 
the promise to write and let me know 
the result of his new experiment among 
the inhabitants of the barnyard. Dur- 
ing the night he had “ analyzed the 
whole business,” and arrived at the 
conclusion that there were other dumb 
creatures besides dogs and horses 
worthy of cultivating. The much neg- 
lected and despised pig, he proposed, 
with apparent humorous sincerity, to 
take in hand, and make a special effort 
to reform his manners and cultivate his 
mental faculties. He argued that human 
society was responsible for “downing 
the pig.” It is a question of “mad 
dog ! ” over again, he declared. “ Some 


59 


one in the far-off past had said the hog 
was a filthy beast, and without stop- 
ping to inquire, everybody else had 
joined in the cry. My mission is to do 
away with this unreasonable prejudice, 
and to elevate to his proper social and 
intellectual position among the animals 
of the earth my much abused and un- 
appreciated porcine friend.” These were 
his jovial parting words, and, with them 
ringing in my ears, the trio made the 
morning start for the last day of the 
outward-bound part of the excursion. 

A thirty miles ride carried us to 
one of the oldest villages in the north- 
ern part of the State — not far from the 
Canada line. One long street, made 
up of the blacksmith, shoemaker, and 
tinshop; a dry goods “Emporium,” a 
tavern — “The Farmers’ Home” — and 
the usual number of churches, with a 
doctor’s shop, and a few dwellings 
thrown in, here and there, to fill up the 

6o 


intervals between the more important 
structures — made, with a good supply 
of shade-trees, an attractive village. 
Of course the buildings were all square 
and white, and the blinds were all 
green, and they were placed as near 
the road as possible, but notwithstand- 
ing these faults of form, color, and 
position, constituting crimes against 
Nature, the whole was fairly attractive. 
Do what they will to offend and deface 
the beauties of New England, and 
especially Vermont nature, the Philis- 
tines who inhabit its picturesque valleys 
cannot destroy the beautiful ever-vary- 
ing outlines of its hills or the restful 
repose of its summer days. They have 
managed to slaughter its forests and to 
dry up its limpid mountain streams, 
but, with the consummation of those 
outrages, Nature calls a halt; and the 
Vandals leave off destroying because 
there is little left to destroy. 

61 


The “Farmer’s Home” proved to 
be an attractive family affair. The 
father, mother, son and daughter com- 
posed the entire menage, and all were 
equally at home in the duties of their 
special departments. There was a tour 
of duty for each in the kitchen ; but the 
energetic daughter was supreme in the 
“Dining-hall,” where she propelled its 
affairs with mechanical exactitude. Her 
unwritten motto was: “On time, or 
cold victuals.” She was a strict con- 
structionist, and “chared off the things” 
as soon as the last piece of pie had dis- 
appeared. But, as the English would 
say, she was not at all a bad sort. She 
was active, inquisitive, quaint, and 
direct, — had opinions upon all subjects, 
and expressed them freely. I have 
always believed I was her first serious 
anthropological study. At first, she 
accepted me with an immense qualifi- 
cation. My manifest bias in favor of 

62 


animals was something new to her 
which she could not comprehend. To 
her practical mind, the petting of a dog 
and looking after his welfare was a 
perfect waste of time, while paying 
particular attention to the wants and 
care of a horse was something not to 
be thought of. I saw she was rapidly 
filling up to the bursting point with 
curiosity, but was too shy to ask the 
direct questions which she was anxious 
to put to me. As soon as occasion 
offered, 1 felt it my duty to give her an 
opportunity to free her mind, and, sit- 
ting out the rest of the “boarders” at 
my last “ supper,” presented an opening 
for the point of the wedge to enter. 
By way of introduction, I mentioned 
my regrets at being compelled to leave 
the next morning. 

“All the folks around here,” she 
frankly said, “will be sorry to hear it; 
you ain’t like anybody else we’ve ever 


had in this town, at least sence I can 
remember. Father and Tom, and all 
the rest of ’em that’s been watching of 
you, say you care more for critters than 
you do for human folks, and I think so 
too ; ever sence I heard you talk to that 
dog of yourn I couldn’t make you out. 
We never had anything like that up 
here before, and one of the store fellers 
told me yesterday he thought you were 
one of them New York City chaps a lit- 
tle off, that had come on this ride for 
your health, and yit you talk sense 
about anything else except them crit- 
ters of yourn, and that’s what puzzles 
the folks — to think that such a smart 
feller as you ’pear to be, should be clear 
gone off when you get to talking to the 
critters. And then there ain’t any sense 
in it, any way; you can talk to dogs 
and hosses all your life and never git 
an answer. They are dumb beasts, 
that’s all they be, and you can’t make 


’em folks if you try a thousand years. 
I’ll bet anything you ain’t got a wife. 
If you had, you wouldn’t be talking all 
this nonsense to critters all the time ; if 
you had one worth a cent, you’d stay 
to home and talk to her, and let the crit- 
ters take care of themselves, same as 
other folks do. Nothing like a good 
wife to take such wrinkles out of a 
man’s head ! Why don’t you get mar- 
ried anyway? Right here in this town 
there are a lot of first-rate girls, better 
educated than I be, been to the high- 
school, and got as good learning as any 
of the city women, all dying to git 
married, and you can take your choice 
right here now. If you had one of our 
nice girls you wouldn’t need to have 
that darn fool of a dog round all the 
time for company.” 

The latter part of this mind-freeing 
was earnest and emphatic, and 1 dis- 
covered between the spoken lines the 
65 


true cause of the outburst. It was as 
clear as the noonday sun that she had 
a very poor opinion of an individual 
who preferred the company of a dog to 
the fascinations of fair woman, and she 
had made up her mind to let me know 
what she thought. 

I ignored the nice girl part of the 
argument, and startled her by asking 
if she were a Christian. “ ’Spose I am, 

I try to be. I don’t know much about 
it anyhow. What makes you ask such 
an all-fired silly question ? All the folks 
round here are Christians; we ain’t 
heathens any mor’n city folks.” 

“Then it follows as a matter of 
course, you being a Christian, that you 
believe the Creator made Heavens and 
the earth and all things therein, and 
you do not believe he made anything 
in vain. All of his creations we see or 
know anything of were made for a 
purpose. The domestic animals were 
66 


intended for the use of human beings, 
and upon the list of those the horse 
stands first, because he is the most in- 
telligent of the purely useful animals; 
but the dog is far ahead of him in 
every respect save physical power. His 
intelligence is of a high order, which 
entitles him to our respect, and he is 
the only animal that will leave his kind 
to associate with man ; and there are 
thousands of instances recorded of his 
having sacrificed his life for those he 
loved. No other animal has ever been 
known to do that. The elephant, with 
his admitted capacity for acute reason- 
ing, never defends his master unless 
ordered; on the contrary, he seldom 
misses an opportunity to kill those 
who have injured or offended him. 
The dog never does this ; he bears no 
malice, and forgets and forgives injuries 
inflicted by those he loves, neither does 
he know distinction of condition or 

67 


rank. He knows you are his master or 
mistress, and whether you are prince 
or peasant it matters not. The palace 
or the garret are the same to him, pro- 
vided a kind master is to be found in 
either, and he shares with his master 
the feast or the crust with equal pleas- 
ure. The noble dog possesses the high- 
est qualities. He gives you his loyal 
affection without reserve, never de- 
ceives you, and is true even unto death, 
and I hold we are indebted to him for 
giving us all that is good in his nature, 
for, the better you treat him, the more 
his fine qualities come to the surface. 
Am 1 not right ? ” 

“Well, I swan; you’ve taken the 
breath all out of my body; 1 never 
heard such talk before. I don’t know 
what to say, and I can’t dispute you. 
You’ve got the whole thing by heart 
and let it out just like one of them 
revival exhorters that comes along here 
68 


every once in a while. You’ve said a 
lot about animals I never heard before 
or thought of; nobody round here ever 
talks about ’em like you do. Why, 
you put the dog way up head of folks. 
From what you say, he’s ten times as 
decent as most men, and, if he could 
only talk, he would show us he could 
spell hard words and do the meanest 
sums in the ’rithmetic. At any rate, if 
dogs and horses and other sich like are 
as smart as you say they are, they ain’t 
got no feelings like we have — ain’t got 
sense enough to be sensitive and take 
on about pain and suffering like we do. 
You can’t make me b’leve any sich stuff 
as that anyhow.” 

This is the point usually made by 
those who have never seriously consid- 
ered the true nature and physical struc- 
ture of animals. A cursory examination 
would prove to the most careless ob- 
server, that the organs and various 

69 


parts of the human organization are du- 
plicated in the animals, especially in 
those of the domestic sort. The two 
points of difference are in form of body 
and the four legs given to the lower or- 
ders instead of two. The heart, lungs, 
bones, muscles, nerves, blood-vessels 
and brain are in each about the same. 
In the animal, for want of speech, the 
power of the brain is an unknown 
quantity, and the absence of that fac- 
ulty of giving expression to thought 
constitutes the greatest difference be- 
tween the species. Give the higher of 
the lower animals the power of speech, 
and possibly some men would take 
rank as the lower animal. 

All this I explained to my audience 
of one, and, in addition, asserted that a 
cruel punishment of a physical nature 
inflicted upon a human being, if be- 
stowed upon a dog, a horse or an ox 
would produce the same amount of pain 


70 


and suffering. If whipping is painless, 
why do all animals who have once been 
whipped jump aside and try to dodge 
the whip they see flourishing in the 
hands of those near them ? The answer 
is, fear of pain. There is no other 
explanation of their action. School- 
boys dread the birch and ferule of the 
schoolmaster no more than a horse or 
an ox fears and dreads the whip of a 
driver. 

“ I declare this is all news to me,” 
my rural friend replied, “and you 
really have set me to thinking. I guess 
we ought to treat all sorts of animals, 
including the human, better than we 
do. I’ve been going to meeting sence 
I was old enough to go alone, and I 
never heard a minister say anything 
about loving animals and treating them 
decently — kinder like folks — do a lot of 
good if they did — ’spose they think they 
ain’t paid for that sort of business and 


7 ' 


’ave got all they can do to save the 
souls of sinners.” 

This was the last attempt at pure 
missionary work in behalf of the lower 
orders. The pleasure part of the ex- 
cursion was about to end, and on the 
morning of the morrow the business of 
returning to the starting, point was to 
commence in earnest. The return was 
made by a short series of long days’ 
work, commencing early in the morn- 
ing, running well into the day, with rest 
in the middle, starting off again late in 
the afternoon, and extending well into 
the evening. In three days the return 
was finished, the whole excursion had 
lasted nearly three weeks — three joyous 
weeks, never again to be duplicated. 

The most pleasurable hours of the 
little tour came from the association 
with my four-footed servants and com- 
panions. The gradual unfolding of their 
intelligence and the rapid development 


72 


of their affection were never-failing 
sources of pleasure. Towards the last 
my calico horse would leave his feed, 
no matter how fascinating to his taste 
the oats might be, to be in my society, 
and the watchful dog was never away 
from my side, night or day. At first he 
shared the stable with his companion, 
but soon after, whenever he was or- 
dered out for the night, his anxious, 
silent pleadings became so tender and 
touching that I could not withstand 
them, and 1 consented to his sharing 
my room with me. At first he had 
the natural dog habit of rising at an 
inconveniently early hour, but after 
being admonished of the irregularity of 
his behavior, he would remain quiet 
until ordered out for his morning exer- 
cise. 

Never before or since had I been 
blessed with more sincere and disinter- 
ested friends — always anxious to serve 


73 


and, seemingly, perfectly happy only 
when in my society. 

Within a week after our return came 
the final parting between us, and 1 have 
never had more stings of conscience 
than 1 felt when closing the door of 
the little paradise my confiding friends 
were never to enter again. 1 parted 
with them in sorrow, filled with anx- 
iety for their future, as well 1 might 
have been, for early the ensuing au- 
tumn my calico friend became again a 
“circus horse” and was heard of no 
more, and the other resumed the role 
of “ nobody’s dog” and went down to 
his soulless (?) finality wishing, beyond 
all doubt, for another taste of his lost 
paradise. 


During the whole of the winter of 
1862 and 1863, I was in camp with my 
command at Falmouth, in front of Fred- 
ericksburg. The army was resting after 


74 


the colossal and tragic fiasco at Freder- 
icksburg to recover a new supply of 
strength and courage for the encounter 
with unknown blunders to come; and, 
aside from doing as many drills as the 
mud would permit, consuming rations 
and drawing pay, there was little to do. 
The winter proved to be a period of 
weary inactivity, with no crowns of 
victory in sight. 

Late one stormy afternoon in the 
month of January, 1863, the orderly 
announced a civilian stranger who de- 
sired an interview. He told the orderly 
that his name was of no consequence 
and that his business was personal. 
Upon his entering my tent, 1 discovered 
a complete embodiment of limp weari- 
ness and sorrow, a palpable wreck of 
something better in the past. 

Upon being seated, he said : “ I 
’spose you don’t know me ? Well, l 
don’t blame you much, I’ve so changed 


75 


since then ; we’ve had a great sorrow 
since your dog and horse scart that 
drove of cattle into the oats. Now I 
b’leve you remember, but you’d never 
guess I’m the same man, would you ?” 

I had to answer that the change was 
very great, and asked the cause. 

“That’s partly what I am here for,” 
he replied. “You see, when the war 
first broke out, George, our oldest, you 
must remember him, a silent, good and 
thoughtful boy, was at the high school. 
All Vermont was alive with the right 
sort of feeling, and all the men and 
boys — and some of the women, 1 guess, 
— wanted to shoulder arms and go. 
We were expecting all the time to hear 
that George was going, but hoped the 
other way, and finally one morning in 
June he got out of the stage with his 
whole kit of books and clothes, and 
told his mother, whose eyes had al- 
ready filled with tears, that he had 

76 


come home to go ; that all the big boys 
of the school had held a meeting, and 
agreed to enlist in the ‘Third,’ and he 
was going with them. Well, 1 thought 
his mother would sink into the ground 
then and there, but she didn’t. George, 
you know, was her favorite. He was 
always a reliable, duty-loving boy. She 
wiped her eyes, took him in her arms, 
and, while her heart was breaking, 
kissed him, and said: ‘1 ’spose you 
ought to go where right and your 
country calls, but it will be awful hard 
for me to part with you. I don’t know 
how I’m going to live with you in dan- 
ger.’ The week he spent with us, 1 tell 
you, it was like a great shadow in that 
old house. His mother kept about, but 
her heart was breaking with terrible 
forebodings, and her eyes were always 
filling with tears. When he had stayed 
his week out, the last at the old home, 
we all drove over with him to the re- 


77 


cruiting station, and saw him sign his 

name to the roll of Company , 

Third Regiment, Vermont Volunteers, 
‘for three years, or during the war.’ In 
three weeks the regiment left for the 
field; we went over to see him off, and 
he was the only happy one of the fam- 
ily. We were filled with unspeakable 
sadness; we saw them march away, 
and, as the old flag disappeared round 
the corner of the road, his mother 
fainted, and fell into my arms. She 
never saw a well day after that, but 
kind of lived on like a machine, taking 
no interest in anything but the news- 
papers bringing news from the war. 

“ George was just as good a boy in 
the army as he had always been at 
home, wrote encouraging letters to his 
mother, filled with ideas about duty, 
patriotism, and all that. But it did no 
good. She had made up her mind she 
would never see him again, and, al- 
78 


though alive, he was as good as dead 
almost to her. When the Winter ended, 
the Vermont troops went with the army 
to Yorktown, and then came the dread- 
ful 1 6th of April — Lees’ Mills. Three 
days after the fight some one sent a 
Boston paper to us, which gave the 
news of the first advance having been 

made by Companies and of the 

Third, and the terrible slaughter of the 
men, but gave no names. His mother 
knew her son was killed, and two days 
later a letter from his Captain told us 
how well he had done his duty, and 
how bravely he had died. The strain 
was more than she could bear, she took 
to her bed, and at the end of five weeks 
we buried them side by side, and my 
happiness along with them. Now do 
you see why I’ve changed ? ” 

After a slight pause, he resumed: 
“I forgot to tell you, — the other boy, 
the one who talked to you about the 


79 


meeting-house steeple five hundred feet 
high, enlisted in the same company as 
soon as he got old enough, is sick in 
the hospital here now, and I want to 
take him back home, and that’s what 
I’m here about. 1 want you to help 
me to get him out of the Army. He 
was a new recruit when he saw his 
brother killed, and hasn’t been well 
since. You know he never was a strong 
boy, but he would go to war to be with 
George. He wouldn’t consent to his 
brother facing danger all the time, while 
he was safe at home. He’s all I’ve got 
left, except my old father, who can’t 
last much longer, and they tell me if 
1 can get you to go with me to General 
he’ll order his discharge.” 

The sad story — one of many I had 
heard, touched me deeply. But I could 
offer no consolation, such wounds as his 
were too deep to be reached by words. 
All I could do was to change the current 

80 


of sad thoughts and extend the meagre 
hospitalities of the camp. Then the ride 
to the field hospital, the interview with 
the once bright, happy boy I had seen 
seven years before, now with the seal 
of death implanted upon his beautiful, 
honest and manly face, then to head- 
quarters, the handing over of his dis- 
charge, and then the parting, with heavy 
heart, from one whose burden of sorrow 
1 had been able to lighten. 

Opportunities to do these acts of 
kindness for those kindred of the fallen, 
whose hearts were overburdened with 
mighty sorrows, were about the only 
rays of sunshine which ever invaded the 
tent life of those whose responsibilities 
were often more burdensome than the 
sorrows of others, which they were so 
often called upon to assuage. 

In the summer of 1865, during an- 
other visit to my native town, a longing 
came over me to revisit the scene of the 


81 


accident to the oats, and I searched in 
vain for two companions to take the 
places of those of twelve years before. 
But, so far as 1 could ascertain, there was 
not a known saddle horse in the coun- 
ty, and the race of nobody’s dogs had 
gone quite out of fashion; so 1 was 
compelled to adopt the “buggy,” and, 
along with it, between its “fills,” a 
lively and “ spunky ” little specimen of 
a Vermont Morgan, that learned after 
the first hours of driving that there was 
a kind friend holding the reins, and with 
whom, from that moment, cordial rela- 
tions were established. A very easy 
drive carried me to the “old home,” 
about noon of the second day, and, as 
I drove up to the door, a kindly faced, 
frank-mannered woman of middle age 
came out of the house, and asked me to 
alight, hitch, and walk in. As 1 entered 
I asked where they all were ? “Who 
do you mean by all ? ” queried my host- 

82 


ess. I answered, “The C s who 

lived here twelve years ago.” 

She took me to an open window, 
and, pointing to the top of a “ Meeting 
House ” spire that came just above the 
point of a rise in the ground, said : 
“Just at the bottom of that steeple 
you’ll find them all, save my uncle 

C , the grandfather of the boys ; 

they are all buried there, and, if you 
want to renew your acquaintance with 
them, you’ll have to go over there to 
do it. I’m the old maid of the whole 
family, and taught school until I came 
here right after Cousin George’s death 
— he was the last of the four — to take 
care of uncle, who was awfully broken 
up, and is to this day. I guess nothing 
but death will ever mend his broken 
heart. He wanders about with no ob- 
ject in life, always wishing for the end 
to come. He’s out in the fields some- 
where ; he will be here pretty soon and 

8j 


awful glad to see you. It seems to me 
he only cares now for those who knew 
the four who lie buried over there. He 
lives in the past altogether, and takes 
no interest in the present or future.” 

A walk of five minutes through a 
meadow to a group of maples brought 
me to the spot where I found, reclining 
beneath the shades, my acquaintance of 
other days. At first he did not recog- 
nize me, and was a little offish, but 
gradually became interested, and at last 
came to me with both hands extended 
and with eyes filled with tears : 

“1 didn’t know ye at first, but I 
oughter have known that voice any- 
where. Your animals scart the drove 
into the oats, but you were so good to 
us afterward. If it hadn’t been for you, 
‘Vin’ would have died in that ere hos- 
pital, for he didn’t live long after we got 
him home. Oh, he was sich a comfort 
to us while he did live. 1 shall never 

84 


forgit the last days ; and may God spare 
me from ever goin’ through any more 
like ’em.” 

While we were walking toward the 
house, I learned that Vincent, the young- 
est boy, lived five weeks after he was 
brought home; that the father died the 
next autumn, and, although nearly 
three years had passed since the cul- 
mination of the “Great Sorrow,” the 
atmosphere seemed impregnated with 
it. The want of signs of life and move- 
ment without, and the evidence of long 
continued quiet and order within, told 
as plainly as words the story of an all- 
absorbing grief. 

During the dinner, the incidents of 
the oats, the conversation with “ Vin ” 
about the steeple, his desire to trade 
for the “Kaliker” horse, and all that 
was said upon the occasion of our first 
meeting, was rehearsed, without a sin- 
gle item being omitted. The meal fin- 
85 


ished, there came the walk to the 
“Meetin’ House Burying Ground,” 
where I saw the seven simple head- 
stones standing for four generations. 
The first to Mary Gale, wife of G. C. ; 
the second to “George C., a soldier of 
the Revolutionary War, born at Old 
Middlebury, Mass., June 12, 1756, died 
in this town, March 7, 1833 ; ” next to 
him came his daughter-in-law ; then a 
vacant space for his son — the second 
George, and then the graves of the 
other four of the third and fourth gen- 
eration. 

I have seen men stand in such a 
presence without being moved, but 1 
could never quite understand how they 
did it. Upon this occasion something 
got into my throat, and I could not 
speak ; something else filled both eyes, 
and 1 had to turn away to conceal a 
weakness which 1 could not control. 

As 1 turned toward my companions, 


the elder, pointing to the line exclaimed; 
“Pretty soon there’ll be four genera- 
tions of Georges in this lot, and that’s 
about all there is to it, 1 guess. There 
couldn’t be any design in takin’ all of 
’em from me in so short a time. A 
merciful God wouldn’t have done such 
a cruel thing; if a kind God had had 
anything to do with it, he would let 
some of ’em outlive me to have been a 
comfort in my old age and to have kept 
the old place where we were all born 
in the family name. No, 1 don’t b’leve 
in sich kindness; all of ’em ought to 
have lived ; they were jest as good 
as they could be, not one of ’em ever 
told a lie or did a mean thing as long 
as they lived. Then if they were so 
good, as they were, and nobody can 
dispute it, why were they all taken 
away from me so soon, and so many 
mean critters, good for nothing to no- 
body, allowed to live ? No, the minis- 


ters may talk to me from now to the 
end of eternity, that their God, if he 
really does sich cruelties, is merciful, 
and 1 won’t b’leve ’em. It’s all non- 
sense to murder a man alive and break 
his old heart and call it merciful and all 
for the best. There is no mercy or best 
about it, it’s all wrong from beginnin’ 
to end, and 1 don’t b’leve the heathen’s 
god or anybody’s God could be so cruel 
and unjust. 

“My father battled from Bunker 
Hill ’till the last Red Coat had left the 
land and then came here and began a 
new battle with the virgin forests of Ver- 
mont. And ever sence 1 was born and 
old enough to work, my sweat has 
watered this soil so dear to all of us. 
There’s not a foot of the cleared part of 
this old farm I have not worked over, 
and the whole of it is as sacred in my 
eyes as if it were a lordly estate handed 
down from scores of generations before 


88 


me. The boys loved it as I do and 
liked to work over it. Now what does 
it all amount to ? In a short time when 
I have passed over yender to join the 
rest on ’em, the old place will go into 
the hands of unfeeling strangers who’ll 
care no more about it than savages. 
Most likely they’ll rob the soil and skin 
it of the last spear of grass, and all 
these noble old trees that have been my 
friends sence I was a boy, will be cut 
down to feed the nearest sawmill. It’s 
astonishing, how mean most folks act 
toward natur ! They treat her as though 
she had no rights and forgit all about 
the good things she gives us. But I 
suppose there is no good in sentiment 
if God is agin ye.” 

His niece interrupted him gently: 
“Come away, uncle, you are nervous 
and excited and saying too much.” 

“No, I’m not nervous or excited; 
I’m saying what I b’leve, and I want 


everybody to know it. Look at those 
graves holding all I had in the world, 
and no one had better, and then tell me 
if 1 have no cause to complain ? ” 



90 


TIM, THE DISSIPATED 




































































TIM THE DISSIPATED 

V ERY late in the year 1848— Christ- 
mas day, to be exact — I found 
myself in New Orleans, bank- 
rupt in health and looking forward, 
hopelessly, to a seemingly not far off 
culmination of my earthly affairs. But, 
owing to the possession of a strong 
constitution, the good offices of kind 
friends, and careful medical treatment, I 
was enabled to disappoint the prophets 
and to evade the undertaker. By the 
time I had regained my feet, the balmy 
days of March had come around, and I 

9 ' 



improved the opportunity to make my 
duty-calls upon the kind-hearted friends 
who had taken an active interest in the 
welfare of a stranger who had been cast 
upon their shores. 1 found them won- 
derfully to my liking, generous, cordial, 
and frank, to a degree I had never 
dreamed of. 

It was fortunate for me that I hap- 
pened to become a denizen of that 
interesting old city during one of its 
better periods. Socially it was at high- 
water mark; the theatres were good 
and the French opera the better of all 
outside of Paris. In the winter it was 
the rendezvous for the well-to-do fami- 
lies of the whole far South. The rich 
cotton planters from Tennessee, Missis- 
sippi, and Alabama, and the sugar plant- 
ers from along the “ coast ” came to this 
Southern metropolis, and brought with 
them their pretty daughters with their 
velvety voices, unaffected speech, gar- 


9J 


nished with its tint of African accent, and 
their frank, disingenuous ways ; and also 
came their sons, who were not so fas- 
cinating, but were good fellows at heart 
— the majority of them — and, as a rule, 
save for one weakness, they were all 
right. But they had the unpleasant 
habit of “ drawing at sight,” and to the 
credit of their alertness, I am compelled 
to record that they were apt to see very 
quick. 

The presence of a large colony of 
well-to-do planters assisted to make 
New Orleans a very attractive winter 
resort. But they were not more given 
to pleasure than the average citizen 
of the place, who, as a rule, did not 
take life very seriously. He was in 
business, but not its slave, and each 
day brought with it its pleasurable re- 
creation. With their peculiar and novel 
ways they were, to me, a revelation ; 
the community made up of them 


93 


seemed almost ideal, and had it not 
been for the presence of the slave and 
the slave market, the old French city, 
in its relation to a certain select few, 
could have passed for a kind of brick 
and mortar Arcadia. 

Among the favorite recreations of 
that period was a drive down the shell 
road to Lake Ponchartrain, where there 
was a famous afternoon resort kept by 
Capt. Dan Hicox, a once famous “Cap- 
tain on the Lakes,” a teller of good 
stories and fabricator of the best fish 
and game dinners and suppers to be 
found in the whole South. To say that 
his establishment was popular would 
give but a faint idea of the real condi- 
tions. Of a pleasant afternoon, in certain 
seasons of the year, nearly all that was 
jolliest and brightest in New Orleans 
society could be found sitting upon the 
captain’s piazzas, enjoying the breezes 
of the lake, which were usually tem- 


94 


pered with something taken through a 
straw or drawn from the upper end of a 
bottle recently from the ice-chest. 

In addition to the usual attractions 
of such a resort, there was a circular 
pen with a pole planted in the centre of 
it to which was attached a certain two- 
thirds grown specimen of the common 
American black bear. When the merest 
mite of a cub he had been captured in 
the wilds of Michigan, and afterwards 
sent to “ Captain Dan ” as a present by 
one of his old friends of the lakes. 

“ Tim ” was a great pet and alto- 
gether comical. He found a comic side 
to every incident which came under his 
observation, and, seemingly, never had 
a serious thought or an unhappy mo- 
ment. It might be said of him that he 
was reared in luxury, for during his in- 
fancy he had a pleasant corner of the 
bar-room for his abode, where he be- 
came the pet of the patrons and the 


95 


recipient of all kinds of good things 
from the larder, with now and then a 
taste from the bottle arranged in a way 
to fit his appetite, and very much to his 
liking. 

In the interests of truthful history, it 
must be recorded that “Tim,” within a 
short time after his first julep, became 
enamored of the bottle, and, very much 
after the manner of the old style South- 
ern bar-room tippler, would watch the 
patrons of the bar, looking wistfully into 
their faces for an invitation to “smile.” 
At the beginning of his career as an hab- 
itual drinker, it took about six or seven 
“treats” to put him in a state of good- 
natured inebriation. When in that con- 
dition, he was the incarnation of animal 
happiness ; lying upon his back with 
all four feet in the air, head to one side, 
tongue half out of his wide-open mouth, 
with eyes half closed, he was the perfect 
personification of good nature and in- 

96 


difference to earthly happenings. Kings 
might rule the world, but Tim’s happi- 
ness was supreme. He envied no other 
bear, and if a tree trunk filled with the 
most delicious honey had been within 
easy reach he would not have raised a 
paw for a barrel of it. The things of 
this world troubled him not, and he 
possessed only one phase of the great 
passion of avarice — he always, when 
sober, wanted enough strong drink to 
make him happy. He had the appetite 
of the habitual human drunkard, but, 
when in his cups, differed from his hu- 
man confrere in one important particu- 
lar ; he was good natured and kind and 
never quarrelsome or cruel like the hu- 
man brute in a similar condition. 

Sometimes, when he was floored, a 
friend would try to coax him to another 
drink by temptingly placing a well- 
filled glass near his nose, an invitation 
that would generally excite in him an 


97 


effort to rise and a very comical and 
unsteady attempt to follow the lead of 
the disappearing glass ; usually he 
would wobble over, but would right 
himself enough to sit up and gaze in- 
tently after the fascinating beverage be- 
yond his reach. In respect to demeanor 
or quantity, he was quite human; he 
never knew he was making a beast of 
himself, or when he had enough. I do 
not pretend to say that Tim’s habits of 
drink were not reprehensible; for the 
purposes of this true story he must 
have the blame. It was certainly not 
the fault of his master; he simply 
suffered the usual penalty of having 
too many thoughtless and convivial 
friends. 

In course of time, Tim became quite 
a bear, altogether too large for a bar- 
room pet, and was removed to a 
specially prepared pen and chained to a 
pole with a platform rest at the top. 

98 


The change for Tim was not a success. 
He spent his time in running around 
and climbing up and down his pole, all 
the time whining, pleading, and scold- 
ing ; he grew thin, and looked and acted 
as though he regarded life as a failure. 
Occasionally, a friend, pitying his un- 
happy condition, would unchain him 
and lead him to his old haunt. In fact, 
it was nearly impossible to lead him in 
any other direction. As soon as re- 
leased from his pole he would start for 
the bar-room, dragging his friend with 
him, nor would he stop until he reached 
his favorite room, when, standing up 
with his hands on the counter, he 
would mumble out in his most intelli- 
gible bear-language a peremptory de- 
mand for a drink. Sometimes he was 
indulged to an extent which would 
enable him to catch a glimpse of his 
lost paradise, but usually he was re- 
turned to his pen after having disposed 


99 


of only enough of his favorite bev- 
erage to give him an appetite for 
more. 

It had often been suggested that if 
Tim could have a congenial occupation 
his grief for his lost liberty would not 
be so acute. Accidentally, an employ- 
ment for all his spare time was forced 
upon him. 

One day, during a great thunder- 
storm, when the wind was blowing 
strong from the east, a small alligator, 
about six feet long, was carried by a 
wave to a part of the piazza near where 
I was sitting. He undertook to get 
back into the lake with the receding 
water, but, being determined to detain 
him, 1 caught him by the end of the 
tail. Within half of a second the prob- 
lem of extremes meeting was solved. 
As soon as he felt my hold he doubled 
himself around, brought his jaws to- 
together with a savage snap, and came 


IOO 


within an infinitesimal measure of catch- 
ing my hand. By that time my blood 
was up, and 1 made up my mind to 
effect a capture of my belligerent caller. 
With the use of a strong chair for a 
weapon, 1 succeeded in preventing his 
return to the lake. Soon assistance 
with a rope arrived, and a tight-drawn 
noose around the upper jaw did the 
rest. “ De ’gater swished dat tail a’ his 
awfully Massa, but we done got him 
sure,” was the announcement that con- 
veyed to "Captain Dan” the infor- 
mation that he was the owner of a 
"’gater.” Our captive was put in a 
safe place for the night, and the next 
morning what to do with him became 
the burning question. 

After considerable discussion a valu- 
able suggestion came from one of the 
colored spectators. He said : “1 reckon 
if dat ’gater and Tim had a chance 
dey’d make fust-rate frens inside a 


ioi 


week.” A unanimous vote approved 
of the proposition, and in five minutes 
“de ’gater was in de pen” and the gate 
closed. 

It was Tim’s custom whenever he 
heard company approaching his place 
of abode to meet them at the thresh- 
hold. Upon this occasion, as usual, he 
was ready to bestow the hospitalities 
of his establishment, but the manner of 
his receiving was neither urbane nor 
graceful. His front door was suddenly 
opened and an unwelcome guest un- 
ceremoniously thrust upon the hospital- 
ity of the unsuspecting Tim, who was 
wholly unprepared for such a visitor. 
It was his first experience with a Sau- 
rian. He had never seen one before, 
and it took only a second for him to 
make up his mind to pass the act of 
non-intercourse. He scampered to his 
pole and climbed to his platform at the 
top, where, during the next twenty- 


102 


four hours, he remained an anxious and 
frightened observer. 

The new arrangement was no more 
satisfactory to the guest than to the 
host. He missed his shore promenades 
and bathing accommodations ; could 
not imagine why he was shut up in a 
small enclosure, and spent his first day 
and night in searching for an opening 
large enough for him to crawl through. 
By noon of his second day of confine- 
ment he gave up his fruitless search and 
settled down to a midday repose. 

Tim, weary with anxious watching, 
seeing his opportunity for an investi- 
gation, cautiously descended to the 
ground, and noislessly approached near 
enough to his guest to reach him with 
a front paw ; then, for several minutes, 
he sat upon his haunches and made a 
very careful diagnosis of the case before 
him and came to the conclusion that it 
was not to his liking, and that he would 


have no more of it than he could help. 
Acting upon this deliberately formed 
conclusion, he made a vicious grab with 
both paws at the tail of the unsuspect- 
ing Saurian. Great was his surprise to 
find that his victim was very wide 
awake, indeed, for no sooner had he 
felt the disturbance at his caudal end 
than he sent his open jaws around to 
ascertain the cause. This sudden flank 
movement was a great surprise to Tim, 
who experienced considerable difficulty 
in extracting one of his paws from the 
ample jaws of a “feller ” that at least one 
bear could not understand. Tim was 
not encouraged to another investigation 
at the moment, but re-ascended to his 
throne, where he spent the remainder 
of the day in licking the wounded 
paw, casting, now and then, malicious 
glances at his unbidden guest, and con- 
cocting plans for the future. 

The next day was bright and sunny, 


104 


and brought with it apparent peace to 
the domain of Tim. The Saurian was 
calmly reposing in the sunshine, and 
Tim was doing his best thinking. He 
had not quite decided as to the manner 
of proceeding, but upon one point he 
had made up his mind. There was to 
be no middle way. His enemy was to 
be conquered and the savage attack 
upon his paw avenged. With his mind 
then fully made up he descended for a 
second investigation and another possi- 
ble attack. This time his approach was 
doubly guarded, and he was particu- 
larly careful in calculating the distance 
between his position and the jaws 
which had given him such an unpleas- 
ant surprise. 

After a deliberate survey of the situ- 
ation, Tim made a sudden spring to the 
side of his enemy, caught him under 
his chest, and turned him upon his 
back. This side attack was unexpected 


105 


and a perfect success, and the reptile 
had an active and prolonged struggle 
to regain his natural position. Tim 
watched the struggle with intense in- 
terest, seeming to be happy in knowing 
that he held the key to the situation. 
From that time on, his guest during the 
daylight hours had no peace. Whenever 
Tim had an opportunity, he turned him 
over, and, when not engaged in that 
diversion, he was chasing him around 
the enclosure. About one month of 
of such an existence brought the Sau- 
rian very near to his end. From a 
most healthy and vigorous “’gater” 
at the time he was caught he had be- 
come weak, weary and lank; so forlorn 
was his lamentable condition that he 
excited the sympathy of some human 
friend, who, during the night, opened 
the gate to the pen. The following 
morning the persecuted reptile was 
nowhere to be found. From that mo- 


ment Tim became his former self, 
watched anxiously at the gate for the 
coming of friends, and pleaded pertina- 
ciously for the intoxicating beverage. 

The summer and greater part of the 
autumn after the “’gater” incident, I 
spent at the Mississippi Springs, and, 
while there, received a letter from a 
friend, who, next to myself, was the 
most ardent admirer Tim ever had. It 
was the last word relating to my comi- 
cal four-footed intimate, and 1 cannot 
close this truthful narration more ap- 
propriately than by quoting from it: 

“You will sympathize with me in 
our mutual loss. Probably, we have 
seen the last of our old friend Tim; he 
departed from his well scratched pole 
about two weeks ago, and is now on 
the road as an important item in ‘ The 
Most Colossal Show Ever Known.’ 
He had grown so large, and his appe- 
tite for strong drink had increased to 


107 


such an alarming extent, that the at- 
tending darkies lost confidence in their 
ability to handle him. During his later 
days at the Lake, he appeared to have 
but one idea, and that related to oppor- 
tunities for intoxication. Whenever his 
pen door opened, no matter for what 
purpose, he would make a rush for 
whoever came in, and demand to be led 
to the bar-room, and, if disappointed, 
would make a most furious demonstra- 
tion. 

“‘Captain Dan’ was immensely at- 
tached to him, but felt that the time 
had arrived when some disposition 
must be made of him. The menagerie 
at Algiers was the opportunity. A bar- 
gain was struck, and the time fixed for 
his departure. 

“ ‘Captain Dan ’ decided to give him 
a regular ‘ Fourth of July ’ send-off, and, 
to that end, invited a few of his most 
intimate friends and admirers to be 

10S 


present at the performance. The guests 
were assembled, and Tim was released 
from his pole. He made a tremendous 
rush for the open bar-room door drag- 
ging two stalwart Africans after him at 
a break-neck pace. He went direct to 
his old corner where he found a large 
tin pan filled with a milk-punch such as 
he had never tasted before. He emptied 
it in short order and then, taking it 
between his paws, sat up, licked the 
last reminiscence of the punch out of it, 
and in a few moments became the most 
comical object imaginable. In fact he 
was never known to be more funny. 
He was laughed at, poked with sticks, 
had his ears pulled, but all to no pur- 
pose; he was too happy to be offended. 
He made a few efforts to stand erect 
and to appear sober and dignified, but 
ended each attempt by rolling over 
upon his back a helpless lump of limp 
intoxication. 


“ In that condition, our old friend 
was bundled into a box on wheels, and 
made ready for his departure to the new 
life. Before going we all shook him by 
the paw, patted his head, and wished 
him a happy future, and, as he disap- 
peared in the distance, there was a 
general expression of regret that we 
had seen the last of poor Tim. ‘ Cap- 
tain Dan’s’ lip trembled, and I feel sure 
if he had had it to do over again, he 
wouldn’t have done it.” 

This parting with Tim proved to 
be the end of his connection with the 
friends of his babyhood and youth : 
none of them so far as 1 know, ever 
saw him again. 

Possibly a little bit of a lesson may 
be shown from the simple life de- 
scribed. Tim, no doubt, came of de- 
cent parents of good habits and morals, 
and in his downfall there was no ques- 
tion of heredity involved. In his in- 


110 


fancy he was placed within easy reach 
of the temptations of the bowl, and so, 
in his manhood, became as much of a 
victim to strong drink as his surround- 
ing circumstances would permit. There- 
fore, the inference is, if he had not been 
tempted, there would have been no fall, 
and Tim would have led a sober life 
and have been a respectable member of 
bear society, provided human beings 
had left him in the home intended for 
his race. 

His degradation, like that of the 
North American Indian, came from con- 
tact with our superior Western civiliza- 
tion. 



Ill 








CARLO, THE SOLDIER 




1 



CARLO, THE SOLDIER 

T HE Ninth New York Volunteers 
was organized in April, 1 86 1 , in 
the City of New York. Two of 
its companies were extra-territorial. C 
was composed of men from Hoboken 
and Paterson, New Jersey, and G 
marched into the regimental headquar- 
ters fully organized from the town of 
Fort Lee in that State. With this last 
named company came “Carlo,” the 
subject of this sketch. 

When he joined the regiment, he had 
passed beyond the period of puppy- 
hood and was in the full flush of dogly 


beauty. He was large, not very large, — 
would probably have turned the scales 
at about fifty pounds. His build was 
decidedly “ stocky,” and, as horsey men 
would say, his feet were well under 
him ; his chest was broad and full, back 
straight, color a warm dark brindle, 
nose and lips very black, while he had 
a broad, full forehead and a wonderful 
pair of large, round, soft, dark-brown 
eyes. Add to this description an air of 
supreme, well-bred dignity, and you 
have an idea of one of the noblest ani- 
mals that ever lived. His origin was 
obscure ; one camp rumor asserted that 
he was born on board of a merchant 
ship while his mother was making a 
passage from Calcutta to New York ; 
and another told of a beautiful mastiff 
living somewhere in the State of New 
Jersey that had the honor of bringing 
him into the world. It would be very 
interesting to know something of the 


114 


parentage of our hero, but, since the 
facts surrounding his birth are unattain- 
able, we must content ourselves with 
telling a portion of a simple story of a 
good and noble life. It may be safe to 
assert that he was not a native Amer- 
ican ; if he had been, he would have 
provided himself with the regulation 
genealogical tree and family coat-of- 
arms. 

During the first part of his term of 
service, Carlo was very loyal to his 
Company, marched, messed, and slept 
with it, but he was not above picking 
up, here and there, from the mess tents 
of the other Companies a tid-bit, now 
and then, which proved acceptable to a 
well-appointed digestion. 

His first tour on guard was per- 
formed as a member of the detail from 
Co. G, and always afterward, in the 
performance of that duty, he was most 
faithful. No matter who else might be 


late, he was ever on time when the call 
for guard mount was sounded, ready to 
go out with his own particular squad. 
At first, he would march back to Com- 
pany quarters with the old detail, but, as 
soon as he came to realize the value 
and importance of guard duty, he made 
up his mind that his place was at the 
guard tent and on the patrol beat, 
where he could be of the greatest ser- 
vice in watching the movements of 
the enemy. In the performance of his 
duties as a member of the guard, he 
was very conscientious and ever on the 
alert. No stray pig, wandering sheep, 
or silly calf could pass in front of 
his part of the line without being in- 
vestigated by him. It is possible that 
his vigilance in investigating intruding 
meats, was sharpened by the hope of 
substantial recognition in the way of a 
stray rib extracted from the marauding 
offender whose ignorance of army cus- 


toms in time of war had brought their 
tender “ corpuses ” too near our lines. 

As a rule, Carlo, what with his guard 
duties and other purely routine items, 
managed to dispose of the day until 
dress parade. At that time he appeared 
at his best, and became the regimental 
dog. No officer or soldier connected 
with the command more fully appreci- 
ated “The pomp and circumstance of 
great and glorious war ” than he. As 
the band marched out to take position 
previous to playing for the Companies 
to assemble, he would place himself 
alongside the drum-major, and, when 
the signal for marching was given, 
would move off with stately and sol- 
emn tread, with head well up, looking 
straight to the front. Upon those great 
occasions, he fully realized the dignity 
of his position, and woe betide any un- 
happy other dog that happened to get 
in front of the marching band. When 


in 


upon the parade field, he became, next 
to the Colonel, the commanding officer, 
and ever regarded himself as the regu- 
lator of the conduct of those careless 
and frivolous dogs, that go about the 
world like the street gamin — having no 
character for respectability or position 
in society to sustain. 

Of those careless ne’er-do-wells the 
regiment had accumulated a very large 
following. As a rule, they were harm- 
less and companionable, and, like the 
inevitable “befo’ de wah” Judge and 
Major, they were always on hand ready 
for a free lunch and drink. It was only 
at dress parade that they made them- 
selves over-officious. Each Company 
was attended to the parade ground by 
its particular family of canine compan- 
ions, and, when all of them had assem- 
bled, the second battalion of the regi- 
ment would make itself known by a 
great variety of jumpings, caperings, 

iiS 


barks of joy, and cries of delight. To 
this unseasonable hilarity Carlo se- 
riously objected, and his demeanor 
plainly told the story of his disgust at 
the conduct of the silly pates of his 
race. He usually remained a passive 
observer until the exercise in the man- 
ual of arms, at which particular period 
in the ceremonies, the caperings and the 
barkings would become quite unendur- 
able. Our hero would then assume the 
character of a preserver of the peace. 
He would make for the nearest group 
of revellers, and, in as many seconds, 
give a half a dozen or more of them 
vigorous shakes, which would set them 
to howling, and warn the others of the 
thoughtless tribe of an impending dan- 
ger. Immediately the offenders would 
all scamper to another part of the field, 
and remain quiet until the dress parade 
was over. This duty was self-imposed 
and faithfully performed upon many oc- 


'9 


casions. After the parade was dis- 
missed Carlo would march back to 
quarters with his own Company, where 
he would remain until the last daily dis- 
tribution of rations, whereupon, after 
having disposed of his share, he would 
start out upon a tour of regimental in- 
spection, making friendly calls at vari- 
ous Company quarters and by taps 
turning up at the headquarters of the 
guard. His duties ended for the day, 
he would enjoy his well-earned rest 
until reveille, unless some event of an 
unusual nature, occurring during the 
night, disturbed his repose and de- 
manded his attention. 

During the first year of his service 
in the field, Carlo was very fortunate. 
He had shared in all of the transporta- 
tions by water, in all the marchings, 
skirmishes, and battles, without receiv- 
ing a scratch or having a day’s illness. 
But his good fortune was soon to end, 


120 


for it was ordained that, like other 
brave defenders, he was to suffer in the 
great cause for which all were risking 
their lives. 

The morning of April 18, 1862, my 
brigade then stationed at Roanoke Is- 
land, embarked upon the Steamer Ocean 
Wave for an expedition up the Eliza- 
beth River, the object of which was to 
destroy the locks of the dismal swamp 
canal in order to prevent several im- 
aginary iron-clads from getting into 
Albemarle Sound, where we had as- 
sembled at that time what was known 
as a “Pasteboard Fleet,” which the sup- 
posed iron-clads were to destroy. 

Among the first to embark was the 
ever ready and faithful Carlo, and the 
next morning, when his companions 
disembarked near Elizabeth City, he 
was one of the first to land, and, dur- 
ing the whole of the long and dreary 
march of thirty miles to Camden Court 


121 


House, lasting from three o’clock in the 
morning until one in the afternoon, he 
was ever on the alert, but keeping close 
to his regiment. The field of battle was 
reached: the engagement, in which his 
command met with a great loss, com- 
menced and ended, and, when the 
particulars of the disaster were inven- 
toried, it was ascertained that a cruel 
Confederate bullet had taken the rudi- 
mentary claw from Carlo’s left fore-leg. 
This was his first wound, and he bore 
it like a hero without a whine or even 
a limp. A private of Co. G, who first 
noticed the wound, exclaimed: "Ah, 
Carlo, what a pity you are not an 
officer ! If you were, the loss of that 
claw would give you sixty days leave 
and a Brigadier-General’s Commission 
at the end of it.” That was about the 
time that General’s Commissions had 
become very plentiful in the Depart- 
ment of North Carolina. 


122 


The Command re-embarked, and 
reached Roanoke Island the morning 
after the engagement, in time for the 
regulation “Hospital or Sick Call,” 
which that day brought together an 
unusual number of patients, and among 
them Carlo, who was asked to join the 
waiting line by one of the wounded 
men. When his turn came to be in- 
spected by the attending surgeon, he 
was told to hold up the wounded leg, 
which he readily did, and then fol- 
lowed the washing, the application of 
simple cerate, and the bandaging, with 
a considerable show of interest and 
probable satisfaction. Thereafter, there 
was no occasion to extend to him an 
invitation to attend the Surgeon’s in- 
spection. Each morning, as soon as 
the bugle call was sounded, he would 
take his place in line with the other 
patients, advance to his turn, and re- 
ceive the usual treatment. This habit 


123 


continued until the wound was healed. 
Always, after this, to every friendly 
greeting, he would respond by holding 
up the wounded leg for inspection, and 
he acted as though he thought that 
everybody was interested in the honor- 
able scar that told the story of patriotic 
duty faithfully performed. 

Later on, for some reason known to 
himself, Carlo transferred his special 
allegiance to Co. K, and maintained 
close connection with that Company 
until the end of his term of service. 
He was regarded by its members as a 
member of the Company mess, and was 
treated as one of them. But, notwith- 
standing his special attachments, there 
can be no reasonable doubt about his 
having considered himself a member of 
the regiment, clothed with certain pow- 
ers and responsibilities. At the end of 
his term, he was fitted with a uniform — 
trousers, jacket, and fez, and, thus ap- 


124 


parelled, mached up Broadway, imme- 
diately behind the band. He was soon 
after mustered out of the service, and 
received an honorable discharge, not 
signed with written characters, but 
attested by the good-will of every 
member of the regiment. 

If alive to-day, he must be very old 
and decrepit; and I am sure that if he 
is, in his honorable old age his honest 
traits of character have not forsaken 
him. No doubt, he takes a just pride 
in the good service he rendered to his 
country in the years of its great trials, 
and it is fortunate that his having four 
legs has placed him beyond the temp- 
tation to join the ranks of the Grand 
Army of treasury looters, who have 
traded off the honorable name of soldier 
for that of the pensioned mercenary. 


125 


» 




JEFF, THE INQUISITIVE 







JEFF, THE INQUISITIVE 

A MONG the gunboats doing duty 
on the inland waters of North 
Carolina, in the early Spring of 
1862, which composed what Commo- 
dore Goldsborough designated his 
“Pasteboard Fleet,” was the Louis- 
iana, commanded by Commander Al- 
exander Murray, who was noted for his 
efficiency and good nature. His treat- 
ment of his crew made him one of the 
most popular officers in the whole fleet. 
He entered into all of their sports, and 
sympathized with the discomforts of 
forecastle life. He was fond of animal 


127 



pets, and always welcomed the arrival 
of a new one. At the time of which 
1 am writing, his ship carried quite a 
collection of tame birds and four-footed 
favorites. 

Among them was a singular little 
character known as “Jeff.” He was a 
perfectly black pig of the “ Racer Razor 
Back ” order, which, at that time, were 
plentiful in the coast sections of the 
more southern of the slave-holding 
States. They were called “ racers ” be- 
cause of their long legs, slender bodies, 
and great capacity for running; and 
“ Razor Backs ” on account of the prom- 
inence of the spinal column. The origin 
of this particular species of the porcine 
tribe is unknown, but there is a tradition 
to the effect that their progenitors were a 
part of the drove that came to the coast 
of Florida with De Soto when he started 
on the march which ended with the 
discovery of the Mississippi River. His- 

128 


tory records the fact that a large num- 
ber of animals were brought from Spain 
for food, and that a considerable num- 
ber of them succeeded in getting away 
from the expedition soon after the land- 
ing was effected. 

Our particular specimen of this wan- 
dering tribe of natural marauders was 
captured by a boat’s crew of the Louis- 
iana in one of the swamps adjacent to 
Currituck Sound, when he was a wee 
bit of an orphaned waif not much larger 
than an ostrich-egg. He was an ill- 
conditioned little mite that had prob- 
ably been abandoned by a heartless 
mother, possibly while escaping from 
the prospective mess-kettle of a Con- 
federate picket. In those days Confed- 
derate pickets were not very particular 
as to quality or kind of food, and I have 
a suspicion that even a “Razor Back” 
would have been a welcome addition 
to their mem. 


129 


When “Jeff ’’was brought on board, 
his pitiful condition excited the active 
sympathy of all, from the commander 
down to the smallest powder monkey, 
and numerous were the suggestions 
made as to the course of treatment for 
the new patient. The doctor was con- 
sulted, and, after a careful diagnosis, de- 
cided there was no organic disease : 
want of parental care, want of nourish- 
ment, and exposure, were held respon- 
sible for “Jeff’s ” unfavorable condition. 
It was decided to put him on a light 
diet of milk, which proved an immedi- 
ate success, for, within forty-eight hours 
after his first meal, the patient became 
as lively as possible. As days and 
weeks went on, there appeared an im- 
provement of appetite that was quite 
phenomenal, but no accumulation of 
flesh. His legs and body grew longer ; 
and, with this lengthening of parts, 
there came a development of intellect- 


130 


ual acuteness that was particularly sur- 
prising. He attached himself to each 
individual of the ship. He had no favo- 
rites, but was hail-fellow-well-met with 
all. He developed all the playful quali- 
ties of a puppy, and reasoned out a con- 
siderable number of problems in his 
own way, without the aid of books or 
schoolmaster. His particular admirers 
declared that he learned the meaning of 
the different whistles of the boatswain: 
that he knew when the meal pennant 
was hoisted to the peak, could tell when 
the crew was beat to quarters for drill, 
and often proved the correctness of this 
knowledge by scampering off to take 
his place by one particular gun division 
which seemed to have taken his fancy. 

I can testify personally to only one 
item in the schedule of his intellectual 
achievements. It is a custom in the 
navy for the commander of a ship to re- 
ceive any officer of rank of either branch 


of the service at the gangway of the 
ship. In this act of courtesy he is al- 
ways accompanied by the officer of the 
deck, and often by others that may hap- 
pen to be at hand. After the advent of 
“Jeff,’ - whenever I went on board the 
Louisiana he was always at the gang- 
way, and seemingly was deeply inter- 
ested in the event. It may be said of 
him, generally, that he was overflowing 
with spirits, and took an active interest 
in all the daily routine work of his ship. 
He had a most pertinacious way of pok- 
ing his nose into all sorts of affairs, not 
at all after the manner of the usual pig, 
but more like a village gossip who 
wants to know about everything that is 
going on in the neighborhood. 

In the gradual development of 
“Jeff’s” character, it was discovered 
that he had none of the usual well- 
known traits of the pig. He was more 
like a petted and pampered dog, was 




playful, good-natured, and expressed 
pleasure, pain, anger, and desire, with 
various squeals and grunts, delivered 
with a variety of intonations that were 
very easily interpreted. He was never 
so happy as when in the lap of one of 
the sailors, having his back stroked. 
His pleasure upon those occasions was 
evinced by the emission of frequent 
good-natured grunts and looking up 
into the face of the friendly stroker. 
When on shore, he followed like a dog, 
and was never known to root. Except 
in speech and appearance, he was the 
counterpart of a happy, good-natured, 
and well-cared-for household dog — pos- 
sibly, however, rather more intelligent 
than the average canine pet. 

The Fourth of July, 1862, was a gala 
day at Roanoke Island. The camps of 
the island and the vessels in the harbor 
were en grande fete. Colors were fly- 
ing, bands playing, drums beating, pa- 


>3? 


triotic steam was up to high pressure, 
and a goodly number of glasses of 
“ commissary ” were consumed in wish- 
ing success to the cause. The good old 
day, so dear to the hearts of Americans, 
was made more glorious by the ex- 
change of camp hospitalities and an in- 
dulgence in such simple hilarity as the 
occasion seemed to require ; but “Jeff” 
was not forgotten. Early in the morn- 
ing, he was bathed and scrubbed, more 
than to his heart’s content, and then 
patriotically decorated. In his right ear 
was a red ribbon, in his left a white 
one ; around his neck another of blue, 
and at his mizzen, or, in other words, 
his tail, he carried a small Confederate 
flag. Thus adorned he was brought on 
shore to pay me a visit, and, as he 
came through my door, he appeared to 
be filled with the pride of patriotism 
and a realization of the greatness of the 
occasion. His reward for this unusual 


>34 


demonstration was instantaneous, and 
consisted of some apples and a tooth- 
some dessert of sugar. Afterward he 
made the round of the camps with a 
special escort of warrant officers and 
devoted Jack Tars. From after ac- 
counts it appeared that he had been 
so well received that his escort ex- 
perienced much difficulty in finding 
their way back to the ship. 

During this triumphant march over 
the island an incident occurred which 
developed the slumbering instinct of 
the swamp “ racer.” In a second, as it 
were, and seemingly without cause, 
“Jeff” was seen to move off at a tre- 
mendous pace at right angles with 
the line of march. He was seen, after 
he had run a few yards, to make a 
great jump, and then remain in his 
tracks. The pursuing party found him 
actively engaged in demolishing a 
moccasin, which he had crushed by 


'35 


jumping and landing with his feet upon 
its head and back. Hogs of this par- 
ticular kind are famous snake-killers. 
A big rattler or a garter snake is all 
the same to them. They advance to 
the attack with the greatest impetu- 
osity, and a feast upon snake is the 
usual reward of exceptional bravery. 

In his habits of eating, “Jeff” was 
a confirmed and persistent gourmand, 
and in time paid the usual penalty for 
over-indulgence of a very piggish sort 
of appetite. While the meal pennant 
was up, it was his habit to go from one 
forecastle mess to another, and to insist 
upon having rather more than his share 
of the choice morsels from each. In a 
short time he came to the repair shop 
very much the worse for wear, with 
an impaired digestion and a cuticle 
that showed unmistakable evidence of 
scurvy. For the first, he was put 
upon short rations; for the second, 

136 


sand baths on shore were prescribed. 
Under this treatment poor “Jeff” lost 
all his buoyancy of spirits and his 
habitual friskiness, and became sad and 
dejected, but bore his troubles with 
becoming patience. He took to the 
cool sand baths at once, and gave 
forth many disgruntled grunts when 
lifted out of them. 

The last time 1 saw “Jeff,” July io, 
1862, he was buried up to his ears in 
the cool sands of the Roanoke Island 
shore, with eyes upturned and looking 
like a very sad pig, but I fear none the 
wiser for his offences against the rights 
of a well-regulated digestion. 

This account has not been written 
for the only purpose of glorifying the 
one particular pig, or pigs in general, 
but rather to call attention to the fact 
that this universally despised animal, 
by associating with human beings and 
receiving gentle treatment, may develop 


>37 


interesting traits of character, which 
would otherwise remain unknown ; 
and also to prove that kindness be- 
stowed upon lower animals may be ap- 
preciated and reciprocated in a manner 
which the upper animal, man, who 
boasts of his superiority, would do well 
to imitate. 



l?8 


TOBY, THE WISE 











TOBY, THE WISE 
HE chief subject of this truthful 



history is a jet-black, middle- 


aged bird, commonly known in 
England as a rook, but nevertheless a 
notable specimen of the crow family. 

In his babyhood he was, in the lan- 
guage of the ancient chroniclers, griev- 
ously hurt and wounded full sore, and 
particularly so in the left wing. He 
was so badly disabled that he had to 
forego the pleasure of flying through 
the air, and was obliged to content 
himself as best he could with trudging 
about on the rough surface of our com- 
mon mother earth. 


'39 



In his sad plight, with the maimed 
wing dragging painfully along, he 
chanced to pass the window of a sanc- 
tum belonging to and occupied by a 
charming old English gentleman, a per- 
fect example of the old school, learned, 
benevolent, and very fond of animals 
and feathered pets. No one can tell 
what chance it was that brought the 
unhappy and wounded young rook to 
the window of this good man. But 
possibly it was a real inspiration on 
the part of the young bird. Toby was 
wet, weary, wounded, and hungry, 
and as he looked in upon the cheerful 
wood fire and the kindly face of the 
master of the house, his longing ex- 
pression was met with a raising of the 
window and an invitation to walk in to 
a breakfast of corn and meal that had 
been hastily prepared for him. He 
gazed and thought, and thought and 
gazed, upon the joys within and still 


140 


he doubted ; but, finally, appetite and 
curiosity got the better of his discre- 
tion, and, as he walked cautiously in, 
the window was closed behind him. 
So the wounded waif entered upon a 
new life. 

At first he was a little shy and cau- 
tious, and it took considerable time for 
him to convince himself that his pro- 
tector was his friend. After a few 
weeks, however, he realized the value 
of his new position, and consented to 
the establishment of intimate relations. 
In fact, Toby became so attached to his 
master, and so affectionate, that he was 
not happy out of his presence. 

During the first month of his captiv- 
ity, his wounded wing was bound close 
to his body for the purpose of giving 
the fractured bone an opportunity to 
unite, and during most of that time he 
would walk by his master’s side, caw- 
ing and looking up into his face as if 


'41 


asking for recognition. When the wing 
got well, and his ability to fly was re- 
established, he would anticipate the di- 
rection of the promenades by flying in 
advance from shrub to bush, alighting 
and awaiting the arrival of his master. 

The most singular part of Toby’s 
domestication was his exclusive loyalty 
to a single person. He had but one inti- 
mate friend, and to him his loyalty was 
intense. He would tolerate the pres- 
ence of other members of the house- 
hold, but when strangers appeared he 
was decidedly offish, and scolded until 
they disappeared. 

Three times a day Toby is decidedly 
funny, and goes through a comical per- 
formance. In his master’s sanctum there 
is a contrivance which, on a small scale, 
resembles the old New England well- 
pole. At one end, which rests upon 
the floor, Toby commences his ascent 
with a great flapping of wings and up- 


142 


roarious cawing. When he arrives at 
the upper end of the pole, some eight 
or nine feet from the floor, it falls and 
lands him upon a platform, beside a 
plate containing his food. This climb- 
ing up the pole precedes each meal, and 
takes place punctually at the same hour 
and minute of each day. 

In the spring of 1890 Toby was 
tempted from his loyalty, and flew off 
with a marauding flock of his kind. He 
remained away all summer. He was 
missed but not mourned, for his master 
felt certain he would return; and, sure 
enough, one bleak, cold morning in No- 
vember, Toby was found looking long- 
ingly into the room where he had first 
seen his good master. The window 
was opened, he walked in and mounted 
his pole, and after him came a compan- 
ion, a meek, modest, and timid young 
rook, more confiding than Toby, and 
differing from him in many other re- 


'43 


spects. He, too, was duly adopted, 
and was christened Jocko. He was 
easily domesticated, and soon became 
a part of the entourage of one of the 
finest old Bedfordshire manorial homes. 

With age Toby has taken on quite 
an amount of dignity. He is neither so 
noisy nor so companionable as form- 
erly, but is more staid and useful. One 
of his favorite resting places, where he 
enjoys his after breakfast contempla- 
tions and his afternoon siestas, is among 
the branches of a fine old English oak, 
whose protecting shades, in the far-off 
past, were the scene of the stolen love- 
meetings of Amy Wentworth and the 
profligate Duke of Monmouth. 

Neither of these knowing birds has 
been able to understand the mystery of 
a looking-glass. They spend many 
hours of patient investigation before a 
mirror in their master’s room, but all to 
no purpose, for the puzzle seems to re- 


144 


main as great as ever. They usually 
walk directly up to it, and betray great 
surprise when they find two other 
rooks advancing to meet them. For a 
while they remain silent and motion- 
less, looking at the strangers, and wait- 
ing, apparently, for some sign of 
recognition. Then they go through a 
considerable flapping of wings and in- 
dulge in numerous caws, but after long 
waiting for an audible response they 
give up the useless effort, only to return 
next day as eager as ever to solve the 
mystery. 

The older bird and his admiring 
junior are perfectly contented with their 
home, and never leave it. They often 
look out from their perches upon various 
wandering flocks of vagrant rooks, but 
are never tempted to new adventures. 
The old fellow is very wise. Like a fat 
old office-holder, he knows enough to 
appreciate a sinecure in which the emol- 


■45 


uments are liberal and the service nom- 
inal. His devoted follower never falters 
in his dutiful imitation of his benefactor. 

Toby proves by his actions that he 
appreciates the advantages of the situa- 
tion, and in his simple way makes some 
return for the pleasures he enjoys. 
During a considerable portion of the 
pleasant days of the year he is in reality 
the watchman upon the tower, ever on 
the outlook to give notice of the ap- 
proach of visitors to his castle, and no 
one can intrude upon the premises 
under his self-appointed watchmanship 
without exciting vigorous caws, which 
are enthusiastically reinforced by those 
of his faithful subordinate. Aside from 
his affectionate devotion to his master, 
displayed as often as occasion permits, 
this duty of “chief watchman of the 
castle” is Toby’s most substantial re- 
turn for favors received ! 

In a letter of last May, the master 

146 


wrote : “ My two crows are sitting on 
chairs close to me, and cawing to me 
that it is time for me to let them out of 
the window, so 1 must obey.” This 
quotation gives but a faint intimation 
of the exceptionally friendly relations 
existing between these devoted friends. 
Blessed are the birds that can inspire 
such affection in the heart of a noble old 
man, and doubly blessed is he who is 
the object of such loving appreciation. 
Long may they all live to enjoy the ful- 
ness of their mutual attachments ! 

This brief sketch is not intended for 
an amusing story. It is only a narra- 
tion of facts in support of an often re- 
peated theory, viz : that the humblest 
creatures are worthy of our tender con- 
sideration, and, when properly treated, 
will make pleasing returns for the affec- 
tion we may bestow upon them. 


'47 






TWO DOGS 




TWO DOGS 

I N 1877, at his English home, 1 first 
made the acquaintance of “Max,” 
a fine specimen of a Dandy Din- 
mont dog. He was of the usual size, 
with brown, velvety eyes — very ex- 
pressive — a long body, tail, and ears, 
coarse hair of a blackish brown and 
light-tan color, and with short legs, 
not particularly straight. The ancient 
Greeks, with their severe ideas regard- 
ing lines of beauty, would not have 
called him beautiful to the sight. But, 
notwithstanding his looks, he was, to 
all who knew him well, very beautiful ; 


149 


for he was a dog of marked intelligence 
and superior moral character. So fine 
was his sense of integrity that a most 
delicious and canine-tempting bone 
might remain within his reach for days 
without his touching it, no matter if he 
were ever so hungry. 

His usual daily occupation com- 
menced with a very early walk with his 
master. Then, in regular order, after the 
family and guests had breakfasted, the 
butler would give him his napkin, fold- 
ed in his own private ring, which he 
would carry from the dining-room to 
the kitchen, where it would be spread 
upon a table, slightly raised from the 
floor, arranged for serving his food. 
After the morning meal had been eaten, 
his napkin would be refolded, and he 
would return it to the butler. The 
same routine was always repeated for 
dinner. His time until evening, if pos- 
sible, was devoted to his master, of 

' 5 ° 


whom he was exceedingly fond, but 
he would sometimes walk with the 
guests when told to do so by his mas- 
ter, to whom he always appealed when 
invited for a promenade by a stranger. 

Every day, after dinner, when the 
family and guests had assembled in the 
drawing-room, “Max” would insist 
upon giving his regular daily exhibi- 
tion, and there was no peace from his 
importunities until he had completed 
the usual performance. His master 
always carried with him from the din- 
ner table a biscuit which, in the draw- 
ing-room, he would hold up and say: 
“ Max, 1 have a biscuit for you. Can’t 
you give us a little dance and a song?” 
Whereupon he would commence to 
turn around upon his hind feet, at the 
same time doing his best in the direc- 
tion of singing a very doleful sort of 
a song, all the while looking exceed- 
ingly grave, the result of his abnormal 


effort. This part of the daily pro- 
gramme was so exceedingly comical 
that it always excited unbounded ap- 
plause from the audience. The dance 
would go on until the master called 
out “enough,” when the performer 
would stop and look imploringly into 
his master’s face, as if asking him if he 
might continue the performance, which 
consisted of his master going through 
the motion of firing, accompanied with 
a noise which passed, in the doggish 
mind, for the explosion of a gun, and 
was a signal for the actor to fall down 
apparently dead, with eyes firmly 
closed, and keeping perfectly quiet. 
In this position he would remain until 
his master told him to come to life. 
The biscuit would then be given him, 
and that would end each day’s work, 
by which he, we may infer, believed 
he earned his daily bread. 

With passing time my little friend 


152 


took on the garb of age, and, a few 
years before his end, became totally 
blind, and among the most pathetic 
sights 1 ever witnessed were his at- 
tempts to see his friends. I had been 
so many times at his home that he had 
come to know me almost as one of the 
family, and at each visit, after his loss 
of sight, as the carriage drove up to the 
front door, when recognizing my voice, 
as I spoke to his master, he would put 
his paws upon the steps of the carriage 
and wag me a hearty welcome, at the 
same time trying his best to see me. 

His career ended in November, 1883, 
when his master buried him near a gar- 
den gate, put a neat wire fence around 
his grave, and planted flowers over his 
remains. And now those who may 
chance to go to Toddington will find 
embedded into the garden wall a hand- 
some marble slab, with a mortuary 
inscription and a verse composed by 


'S3 


his kind master engraved upon it, 
which runs as follows: 

“MAX 

Died, November, 1883. 

If ever dog deserved a tear 
For fondness and fidelity, 

That darling one lies buried here 
Bemourned in all sincerity.” 


One bright morning in the month of 
November, 1879, the front door of my 
house was opened, and there came 
bounding through it and up the flight of 
stairs, the most vivacious, clean, and 
inquiring little dog imaginable. As soon 
as he arrived upon the second floor, 
calls came to him from several direc- 
tions at the same time, and he did his 
best to answer them all at the same mo- 
ment ; all the while barking and danc- 
ing around in the most frantic and 
delighted manner. Within five minutes 

•54 


after his debut, he was perfectly at 
home and upon the best of terms with 
the entire household. 

The name of this new member of 
the family was “ Phiz,” and his alleged 
place of nativity Yorkshire, England. In 
other words, he was a pure Yorkshire 
terrier in descent, a mixture of blue, light 
gray, and silver in color ; in size a little 
larger than the average dog of that 
breed, and, as one of his dog-expert 
friends often remarked: “He is one of 
the doggiest dogs of his size 1 have ever 
known.” This was literally true, for 
there never was a more manly and coura- 
geous little animal. In his prime, his bra- 
very was far beyond the point of reckless 
indiscretion, and any dog whose appear- 
ance did not happen to please him, he 
would attack, no matter how large, or 
under what disadvantageous circum- 
stances. The severe shakings and rough 
tumbles of to-day were forgotten by the 


'55 


morrow, which found him ever ready 
for a new encounter. 

The red-letter events in his active life 
occurred in Madison Square, which he 
would enter as though shot from a cat- 
apult ; and woe of woes to the un- 
fortunate plethoric pug which might 
happen to pass his way 1 It was his 
habit when he saw one of these stupid 
and helpless unfortunates to “ring on 
full steam and board him head-on mid- 
ships.” For a few seconds after the 
coming together, there would be visible 
a comical mixture of quick moving legs, 
tails, and ears, and a frantic attempt on 
the part of the astonished pug to emit a 
wheezy sound of alarm, followed by a 
condition of most abject submission. 
“Phiz,” standing over the prostrate 
body of his victim, head erect, tail and 
ears stiffened with pride of victory, made 
a picture of doggish vanity, once seen, 
never to be forgotten. These scenes, in 

156 


the warm season, were almost of daily 
occurrence, much to the chagrin of 
many pug-loving dames. 

“ Phiz ” only amused himself with 
the innocent pug (for he never was 
known to offer to bite one), but he was 
always savagely in earnest in his demon- 
strations of detestation of the face-mak- 
ing, ever-yelling average street small 
boy. And he had no special love for 
the undersized butcher’s and grocer’s 
assistant, whom he delighted to attack 
whenever he could waylay them in a 
dark passage between the kitchen and 
front basement hall. Some of these at- 
tacks were so sudden, fierce, and unex- 
pected, and were attended with such a 
volume of snarls and barks, that the 
grocer’s boy had been known to drop 
his basket of eggs, and run as if pur- 
sued by a terrible beast of huge dimen- 
sions. 

As the subject of this sketch took on 


'57 


additional years, he accumulated much 
knowledge, and, by the time he had 
accomplished the mature age of six, he 
was far more wise than any serpent the 
writer had ever known. He had never 
been taught to perform tricks, nor had 
been in any manner trained, but by his 
own observation he had managed to 
pick up a world of useful information, 
which proved of great value to him. 
Among his acquirements he had learned 
how to make known, in an original and 
intelligent manner, all the wants of a 
well-bred dog. He could tell those 
around him when he desired to go up 
or down stairs, call for water or food, 
ask to go out, and give a note of warn- 
ing when a stranger was coming up the 
street steps, but he was never known 
to bark at the like approach of one of 
the family or a friend. 

One of his undeviating customs was 
the morning call at the chambers of his 

.58 


master and his mistress, when he would 
first make himself known by a very 
delicate scratch upon the door. If not 
answered, then another and more vig- 
orous scratch ; still no response, then a 
gentle bark of interrogation, and then, 
if the door was not opened, would 
come a most commanding full-voiced 
bark, saying as plainly as possible : 
“ Why don’t you let me in? ” These 
gradations from the lesser to the greater 
in effort and tones, all in the direction 
of asking for a certain thing, proves 
conclusively the presence of powers to 
reason developed to a considerable de- 
gree. 

“ Phiz ” was selfishly interested in 
three things : a walk, cats generally, 
and dogs particularly; and no conver- 
sation relating to these could take place 
in his presence without exciting his 
active attention. When these subjects 
were being discussed he would leave 

*59 


his couch and go from one conversa- 
tionalist to another, looking up into 
their faces in the most inquisitive man- 
ner, all the while making a great 
mental effort to understand exactly 
what they were saying. 

His most remarkable manifestations 
of intelligence would occur at the time 
when his master and mistress were 
about to leave their home for their 
usual summer absence of about six 
months. On the first two or three 
occasions of this kind he came to the 
carriage to wag a good-bye. Later he 
must have arrived at the conclusion 
that certain preparations meant a long 
period of loneliness for him, and then, 
from the commencement of “putting 
things away” and packing boxes, he 
would appear very much dejected — no 
more cheery barks and frisky wags, 
but, on the contrary, he would show 
great depression of spirits, and, finally, 


when the time arrived for the carriage 
and for carrying out the baggage, 
“ Phiz” would hide in some out-of-the- 
way place, there to nurse his grief, un- 
disturbed and unseen. 

The subject of this sketch reached 
the ripe old age of eleven with all func- 
tions and faculties unimpaired, save 
sight, which, we are compelled to record, 
was totally obscured. I happened to be 
with him when he came to the painful 
realization of his great misfortune. It 
was during his accustomed late-in-the- 
afternoon walk. Failing to find his way 
along the sidewalk he had stopped, 
while I, without seeing him, had passed 
on, but only for a short distance, when 
I was attracted by a most pitiful and 
grief-stricken cry. I looked around, 
and there was my poor little friend and 
companion, sitting close to the lower 
stone of a flight of steps, with his nose 
pointed straight up to the heavens, and 


crying as though his heart would break. 
1 hurried to him, took him gently in 
my arms, and carried him to his box, 
which he hardly left for many days. 
His grief was so intense that he refused 
to eat or be cheerful, and made very 
faint responses to the most affectionate 
advances. Within a week or more, 
however, he began to resume his in- 
terest in affairs, having, no doubt, 
like human beings similarly afflicted, 
through process of reasoning, become 
reconciled to his misfortune. 

If he had been a man instead of 
a dog, he would have had an easy 
chair, a pipe, and, in his moods of vain- 
glory, fought his many battles over 
and over again. But, as he was only a 
dog, he found his way about the house 
as best he could, varying occasionally 
his dull routine by a short promenade 
over the paths which were once the 
race-track of his wild and gleeful pranc- 

162 


ings. And thus he passed on to that 
everlasting night, from whence no dog 
whether good or bad has ever returned 
to wag a solution of the mysteries 
which must have puzzled the minds 
of many generations of wise and philo- 
sophical dogs. 



i«3 






TWO INNOCENTS ABROAD 


















TWO INNOCENTS ABROAD 

I PASSED a portion of the summer of 
1890 at Banff, a fascinating resort in 
the heart of the Canadian Rockies, 
established and controlled by the Ca- 
nadian Pacific Railway Company. 

It would be very difficult to find a 
more charming and picturesque loca- 
tion for a summer resting-place. The 
hotel is situated about four thousand 
five hundred feet above the sea-level, 
and is nearly surrounded by lofty peaks 
and mountain-ranges which present a 
great variety of rugged outline. 

To the venturesome mountaineer, 


the inducements to climb seem almost 
endless. In the immediate vicinity of 
the hotel, there is a choice of ascents of 
from six to eleven thousand feet. Most 
of them may be made by any one who 
has a cool head, a sure foot, and suffi- 
cient endurance ; but there are two or 
three which ought to be undertaken 
only by experienced mountaineers. I 
made several of the lesser ascents alone, 
and, in each instance, against the advice 
of inexperienced and timid persons, who 
declared that I would either be dashed 
to pieces, by falling down a precipice, 
or devoured by bears, which are sup- 
posed to be rather plentiful. 

My last climb was to the top of the 
middle peak of the “Sulphur Range.” 
It was neither difficult nor dangerous ; 
but the view from the little table at the 
top was simply wonderful. As far as 
the eye could see, in any direction, 
were mountain peaks, none covered 


with snow, but all presenting magnifi- 
cent rock-formations of a character 
which is quite peculiar, I believe, to 
that part of the great American range. 

The little table at the top of the peak 
is about thirty feet in diameter and is 
covered with broken rock. While sit- 
ting there, musing upon the natural 
wonders by which I was surrounded, I 
noticed the approach of two chipmunks, 
coming up from the side of the moun- 
tain. They halted when they saw a 
strange animal ; but, finally, after sit- 
ting upright for a short time and giving 
me a deliberate and careful stare, they 
concluded to come on, and presently 
they discovered a little clump of stunted 
grass growing from a crevice between 
the rocks, which they proceeded to de- 
spoil of its dwarfed seeds. When they 
had finished their scanty meal they 
looked about for something else to eat. 
Feeling sure of their desires, I crushed a 

167 


soft biscuit into small pieces, and 
dropped them at my feet ; and soon 
my little friends were busy eating the 
crumbs, apparently quite unconscious 
of the fact that they were within easy 
range of an animal supposed to have 
been created in the image of his Maker, 
but the only one which kills for the 
sake of killing, and boasts of the pleas- 
ure he derives from the destruction of 
innocent animal life. 

Within a very few minutes this pair 
of little innocents became quite famil- 
iar, and the crumbs continued to fall 
until they had filled their stomachs and 
then the ample pouches on each side of 
their jaws. Thus loaded they presented 
a most comical appearance. When l 
rose to my feet their surprise made them 
appear still more comical. They were 
inclined at first to scamper off, but, 
upon reflection, concluded they would 
see the whole show ; and, as 1 moved 


over to the edge of the table, to go 
down the mountain, they followed a 
short distance, and gave me a most 
quizzical parting glance, which said as 
plainly as their little faces could express 
their thoughts: “Good-bye. Be sure 
to come again, and don’t forget the bis- 
cuits.” 

This is not a story ; it is only an in- 
cident which proves what confiding lit- 
tle fools the chipmunks were to trust 
themselves within reach of a specimen 
of that tribe of superior animals which 
delights in the destruction of life, kills 
for pleasure, and enjoys the infliction 
of pain upon innocent and helpless 
creatures. 

The excuse for their confiding folly 
consisted in the fact that they had never 
seen a man before. 


169 
























t 


* 


% 














ABOUT COLUMBUS 





ABOUT COLUMBUS 

BY AN OLD SHOWMAN 

F OR fully a third of a century the 
large elephant bearing the name 
of the great discoverer was well 
known to all the “Show” loving inhab- 
itants of our country. He was remark- 
able for his great size and bad temper, 
and, if he had been left in his native 
wilds, might have established a notable 
reputation as a rogue elephant. His 
keepers were of the opinion that he 
made the mistake of his life when he 
became a mere show animal, engaging 


in an occupation that required a certain 
amount of decent behavior. 

It was said of him that he was a 
very reasonable sort of an animal when 
permitted to have his own way, but 
never submitted to confinement with 
any sort of grace. He was always en- 
raged at being chained to the ring or 
stake, and sometimes decreed capital 
punishment, which he executed him- 
self, for the unfortunate keeper who was 
guilty of the offence of chaining him. 
He was very much given to breaking 
and bolting, and when once in the open, 
and fairly on the go, he became a very 
dangerous customer, and his keeper, if 
wise, would give him a wide field until 
his rampage was finished. 

One among the many of them, who 
died in the seventies, was his friend, 
and never had any trouble with him, 
and he always insisted that the lively 
escapades of his ponderous charge were 


172 


the result of an all absorbing longing for 
liberty. He used to describe the mag- 
nificient old pachyderm as the living 
embodiment of a justifiable revolt. He 
had not much sympathy for the keepers 
who had been executed, nor did he have 
much respect for their knowledge or 
discretion. According to his theory, they 
were mere machines for so much per 
month ; they never studied the charac- 
ter or feelings of the splendid animal in 
their charge ; they were inconsiderate, 
unnecessarily harsh and cruel, and, 
from the unnaturally-confined elephant’s 
standpoint, in most instances got what 
they deserved. 

The Columbus incident, of which an 
account is to follow, was not a particu- 
larly exceptional one, and the descrip- 
tion of it was written by the friendly 
old keeper who had charge of the hero 
of it during two consecutive years back 
in the thirties. The narration is a mod- 


'73 


est one, and its phraseology proves it 
to have been written by a man of rare 
courage. It was printed in a Cincin- 
nati newspaper in the month of Febru- 
ary, 1870, and is now given, with the 
editorial head note just as it appeared. 

“THE ELEPHANT COLUMBUS.” 
“Letter from another witness of his rampage 
near New Orleans.” 


“The account of the rampage of the elephant 
Columbus near New Orleans, in 1839, which we 
published some time since, has refreshed the 
memories of many old showmen, and as we are 
always glad to publish anything of interest to 
them, we give the following letter, which we 
think will prove entertaining to our readers gen- 
erally : 

South Pomfret, Vt., 

January 30, 1870. 

To the Editor of the Chronicle: 

I have just received a copy of your paper, of 
December 31, 1869. I do not think the state- 


1 74 


ment headed ‘A Curious Circus Reminiscence ’ is 
quite correct. At that time I was the advertiser 
of one branch of the Combined Circus and Men- 
agerie. We were to exhibit in Algiers until the 
7th of January, and in New Orleans on the 8th, 
that being the most popular day with the people 
of that city. William Crum was driving Hanni- 
bal, and George Potter Columbus. It was Crum's 
horse that was knocked down, and Crum was 
killed. Samuel Ward and myself were standing 
within ten feet of Crum when he was killed. We 
had a bet on the height of the two elephants, and 
that was the reason why they were brought 
alongside of each other. Columbus was shot 
under the eye before he killed the drayman. We 
did not exhibit in Algiers. The people were too 
much frightened to attend. So we went to New 
Orleans on the 1st of January, instead of wait- 
ing until the 8th. 

On the same evening the difficulty occurred, 
James Raymond and James Humphrey, proprie- 
tors, came to me and wanted I should go and 
look after Columbus. I told them I would if John 
Carley would go with me. I knew him to be 
an old elephant man. They asked him: he said 
he would like to go, but was sick and would 
rather be excused. The next morning George 


175 


Growe, a young green hand, who came with 
Foster’s company, volunteered to go with me. I 
must confess that when he came forward it 
cooled my courage, but two horses were saddled 
and brought to the door. I mounted mine in 
rather a confused state of mind, wishing myself 
anywhere except where 1 was. When we 
started out it was dark and foggy. I told Growe 
to go ahead, and, after going about half a mile, 
we put up for the night on a flatboat. At day- 
light the next morning we started again, and 
proceeded down the river about nine miles, 
where we found Columbus in a canefield, with 
his head against a pecan tree, asleep. I may 
now remark that Growers courage had some- 
what cooled off, and he had fallen some half 
mile to my rear. I rode toward the elephant 
until I got within hailing distance, and then 
spoke to him to come to me. He raised up and 
began shaking his head. Presently he started 
for me the best he could, and my horse did a good 
business getting out of his way. He followed 
me for about six miles, and then came to a halt 
in front of a large pile of lumber on the levee, 
which he proceeded to throw into the river as 
fast as possible, and then started after me at a 
more moderate gait. When we got in front of 
176 


a church at Algiers he made a second halt. I 
then told him to lie down, and, to my astonish- 
ment, he obeyed. I got off from my horse, took 
my knife, stuck it in his ear and held him down 
until assistance came from the canvas, which 
was about half a mile off; then Growe took him 
by the ear and led him to the canvas, and, the 
same day, we crossed over to New Orleans. 
Growe took care of him all that winter and left 
with him in the spring, but was killed by him 
the next summer, as I learned afterward. 

Poor Crum met with a terrible death. Colum- 
bus’ tusk entered his groin and came out at his 
shoulder, going through the entire length of his 
body. 

These are some of the exact facts as they 
occurred for I was on the spot, and saw the 
whole affair. I could say much more, but do 
no think it necessary.” 

The writer of this letter was for two 
years the constant and interested com- 
panion and friend of, possibly, the most 
unruly and bad-tempered elephant ever 
exhibited in the United States, and the 
reason he got along with him without 


177 


accident was that he devoted his un- 
divided attention to his charge, studied 
his character, gave him frequent oppor- 
tunities for bathing, and as much liberty 
as circumstances would permit. 

The old keeper used to say that 
Columbus “was full of odd whims and 
more given to mischief than malice.” 
When there was any hard work to be 
done, like lifting cage wagons out of 
the mud, or clearing roads of fallen 
trees, he was always ready to do his 
full share, and was never so happy as 
when actively engaged in some labor- 
ious occupation. Once in a while he 
would take it into his head that he 
would like a good run and an oppor- 
tunity to indulge in mischief, such as 
uprooting trees, scattering fence rails, 
pulling off barn doors that happened to 
be standing open, etc. etc. It was his 
habit to signify his desire, after the 
“ show was over,” by trumpeting nerv- 

178 


ously, dancing in his elephantine way, 
and tugging at his chain. These notifi- 
cations did not come very often, but 
when they did, if not too inconvenient, 
his request was complied with. These 
calls never came just before the per- 
formance or while it was in progress. 
The mischief-loving old sinner was far 
too wise for that, for he had a most 
lively appreciation of the usual inflow 
of goodies from the boys and girls who 
were courageous enough to encounter 
the danger of “feeding the elephant.” 

The last conversation 1 had with the 
successful old keeper, only a year be- 
fore his death, was about his singular 
charge, and he insisted upon the truth- 
fulness ot his old theory — that the ele- 
phant was not naturally bad, but hated 
confinement, demanded kindness and 
consideration from those who were the 
visible instruments used in depriving 
him of his liberty, and, when he re- 


179 


ceived neither, revenged himself by kill- 
ing the tyrants who were depriving him 
of the freedom to which he was natur- 
ally entitled. 

My old friend used to say: “ It’s 
awfully hard lines for such a magnifi- 
cent old beast as Columbus was to be 
tied up and deprived of liberty, and, if I 
had been in his place, I would have killed 
more fools of keepers than he did. 
Why, the old elephant was just as 
smart as any of us. He had thought 
the whole thing out for himself and put 
the boot on the right leg every time. 
He knew we’d no right to confine him 
the way we did, and made up his mind 
to be judge, jury, and executioner, and 
in his time he did a lot of killing. I 
don’t quite remember how many he 
made away with ; some put it as high 
as ten, but I guess seven or eight would 
be about correct. 

“When I was first asked to take 

180 


charge of Columbus, 1 was in the busi- 
ness part of the “ Show,” and had never 
thought of becoming an elephant-driver. 
But somehow, without effort or know- 
ing why, I got well acquainted with the 
old fellow, and, although often warned 
of his dangerous amusements, was 
never afraid of him. 

“ During the winter of 183- and 1 83— 
we were in quarters at C . The con- 

finement had been long and close, and 
during the whole winter Columbus had 
been restive and cross. When it came 
time to start out for the summer’s bus- 
iness no one could be found to drive 
him. So, as a last resort, the owners 
offered me a large salary for the job. I 
had no fear concerning the success of 
the undertaking, but hesitated about be- 
coming a professional “elephant-man,” 
but the big pay was a great temptation, 
and I yielded. 

“ The first few days after we started 

181 


out upon the road, my charge was cross 
and cranky, and I had to watch him all 
the time as a cat would a mouse. Upon 
one occasion, when against my orders, 
just for the mere deviltry of the thing, 
he went out of his way to turn over a 
plantation cart that was standing by 
the roadside, 1 went for him savagely, 
with hook and spear, and gave him a 
big dose of something he didn’t want ; 
he soon had enough, threw up his 
trunk, and yelled like a schoolboy be- 
ing flogged. 

“This submission proved to be his 
complete surrender to my will, and 
from that time we got on like a pair of 
loving brothers. We became strong 
friends, and I used to talk to the old 
rascal as 1 would to a human being. 1 
have always believed he understood 
more than half I said to him. 

“ He became very fond of our morn- 
ing race. It was the custom to start 

182 


early in the morning — never later than 
four o’clock. When we would get fairly 
out of a village where we had exhibited 
the day before, I would ride up along- 
side and ask him if he would like a run, 
he would answer by throwing up his 
trunk, giving a trumpet sound of joy, 
and starting olf at a stiff gait, keeping 
it up until I called a halt, and, if we 
happened to be near a stream deep 
enough to hold him, he would take to 
it, and stay until the rest of the show 
came up. 

“'No, 1 never had much difficulty in 
getting along with Columbus. From 
the start he found out I was not afraid 
of him, and that I would give it to him 
if he cut up any of his wicked capers ; 
and he also came to understand that I 
was his indulgent friend who humored 
many of his harmless whims and treated 
him kindly. 

“At the end of two years 1 was both 


glad and sorry to leave him. The watch- 
ful confinement had become irksome, 
and 1 was sure that as soon as I would 
leave him he would get into trouble, — 
which he did, and had a bad time of it 
to the end of his days. 1 have always 
felt kind of sorry for having put the 
knife through his ear, and never would 
have done it if I had not been excited 
and scart half out of my wits. If 1 had 
given my common sense half a chance, it 
would have told me that his lying down 
was a sign of recognition of authority, 
and that he was willing to throw up 
the sponge and behave himself. But 
1 guess he forgave me, for, whenever 
afterwards I went near him, he would 
give me the old time friendly greeting. 

“ It’s many years now since 1 left 
the show business, and I’ve thought the 
whole thing over, and concluded it’s all 
wrong. The confinement is unnatural 
and cruel. Even the little animals in 


184 


cages, while they seem to be happy, 
are as miserable as they can be. Take 
a careful look at them when they are 
not tired out or asleep, and you will 
find an anxious expression on all their 
faces — a sort of looking out of their 
cages for some one to come along and 
open the door. 

“The great cat tribe, Lions, Tigers, 
Leopards, Panthers, and the rest of 
them, are always pushing their noses 
against the bars for liberty, and are 
usually pretty cross because they can’t 
get it. 

“ At any rate, it’s pleasant for me to 
look back upon my many years of in- 
tercourse with the poor creatures, and 
to feel that I never, save in the single 
instance, treated one of them unkindly.” 

Assisting in the two years of suc- 
cessful management of Columbus was 
the inevitable “ elephant dog, ” who was 
his constant companion and friend. 

.85 


They slept together nights and tramped 
side by side during the days, and often, 
when the elephant would not obey his 
keeper, the faithful companion would, 
in some mysterious way, induce his 
huge friend to do the reasonable and 
behave himself like a respectable and 
order loving beast. 

1 have forgotten the manner of the 
taking off of the old slave of the 
“Show,” but he, with his friendly 
keeper, who to the end of his days was 
his champion, have long since passed 
on to that mysterious resting place from 
which neither man nor elephant have 
sent any message back, and let us hope 
that after their many trampings, and as 
a reward for the many miseries endured 
while upon earth, that they are now 
enjoying the rewards bestowed upon 
the forgiven and blest. 









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IN RELATION TO MYSTERIES 



I 















IN RELATION TO MYSTERIES 

T HE relation of the three unusual in- 
cidents following these intro- 
ductory words are only simple 
statements of facts for each reader to 
solve in his own way. Concerning 
them I have no theory whatever, and 
avow emphatically an entire disbelief 
in their sometimes alleged supernatural 
origin. That, for the present at least, 
they are inexplicable must be admitted, 
but that they will always remain within 
the realm of mysteries beyond the 
power of solution is very doubtful. 

Up to the present time many ac- 


cepted, or rather seeming, mysteries, 
which, with the assistance of ages, 
have crystallized into form, have been 
permitted to pass unchallenged, but 
the time has arrived when the old 
fields, now almost sacred groves, where 
superstition has taken root and blos- 
somed, are about to be explored. 
The almost omnipotent search-light of 
science is turning its rays into the 
dark nooks and corners of complacent 
ignorance, greatly to the discomfit- 
ure of many old theories and beliefs, 
whose foundations are as unsubstantial 
as dreams. 

Until the possibly far-off culmina- 
tion of the great scientific epoch, new 
mysteries known only to the labora- 
tories of Nature will continue to be 
born. But those who have watched 
the progress of scientific achievement, 
through the last half of the Nineteenth 
Century, must believe that, within the 


next like period, the visible manifesta- 
tions of secrets coming from the bosom 
of Nature (of which the outer shell now 
only is seen) will have been ascertained 
to belong to a previously undiscovered 
series of natural phenomena. 

We know as a certain fact of the 
existence of a natural element of power 
called electricity, but what is it, and 
whence does it come ? To the ignorant 
it performs miracles in an apparently 
supernatural way, while to the intelli- 
gent it is regarded as a subtle natural 
force coming from the universal labora- 
tory of boundless nature and as unend- 
ing as time itself. In electricity, as in 
many other manifestations of the forces 
of nature, we see only results, and 
know little or nothing of the first cause. 
The time, however, let us hope, is not 
far off when origins will be as easily 
demonstrable as is now the seeing of 
effects we cannot understand. 


Present indications point to the 
early solution of all superstitions, many 
of which for centuries have construed 
some of the simplest happenings, which 
could not upon any known principles 
be explained, into demonstrations flow- 
ing from supernatural sources. Super- 
stition must certainly fall before the 
great and impartial sweep of modern 
research. In at least one direction, the 
battle will be of long duration, but at 
the end of the conflict, the vicious old 
fabric coined out of ages of falsehood 
as old as our civilization, sustained by 
centuries of superstitious ignorance and 
countless unspeakable cruelties and 
crimes, will totter from its foundation 
in the limitless sphere of human credu- 
lity, and fall, let us hope, to its final 
decay. 

The destruction of that inveterate 
enemy of intellectual progress and the 
human race, will be the culminating 


triumph of scientific achievement and 
the crowning glory of human effort in 
the interest of a more exalted concep- 
tion of the Deity, better morals, and a 
higher plane of civilization. 

From my birth to and including a 
part of the year 1846, I lived with my 
grandparents in the town of Pomfret, 
Vermont. The inhabitants of that old 
rural community during my time were, 
1 believe without exception, descend- 
ants from the early English colonists of 
Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Rhode 
Island. They were an orderly, law- 
abiding, industrious, and honest people, 
intensely patriotic, believing in the fruits 
of the Revolution, in many of the bat- 
tles of which they and their immediate 
ancestors had taken part. 

Up to the period of my early days 
they were still engaged in the continu- 
ous difficult task of creating homes for 
their families and in building a new 


state, and had but little time to bestow 
upon books or mental culture of any 
sort. Their lives were laborious and 
beset with many hardships. Indeed, it 
may be truly said of them that, from an 
academic or bookish standpoint, they 
were educated and enlightened only to 
a limited extent. Each household had 
its cupboard of books brought from 
“below,” and they retained in their 
memories an interesting stock of his- 
toric traditions and patriotic anecdotes, 
many of which were connected with 
the early history of a majority of the 
families of this community. The fre- 
quent recital of these served to keep 
alive the patriotic spirit, and to im- 
press upon the minds of the rising gen- 
eration the importance and value of the 
heroic services performed by their an- 
cestors. 

As a rule, this little New England 
town unit, composed of strong, hardy 


192 


unlettered men and women, was ex- 
ceptionally free from natural stupidity 
and the usual repertoire of rural super- 
stitions, but they had a few which 
were dear to many of the good old 
New England housewives of my par- 
ticular period. Among them was a 
belief in the misfortunes likely to at- 
tend new undertakings begun on Friday; 
they had a perfect reliance in the ill 
ending of any enterprise connected with 
the number thirteen; and it was rank 
heresy for any one not to believe in 
the ill-omened, grief-stricken howls of 
the family dog. That this latter belief 
was not without a certain reasonable 
shadow of foundation, I am about to 
show in the relation of a series of re- 
markable incidents, which are of a sort 
that up to this time have not been ex- 
plained. 


'93 


Lr^ 




MYSTERIES 
















MYSTERIES 

AUGUST 27, 1840 

I N the month of August, 1840, the 
twenty-seventh day, to be exact, 

I was still at the “old H n 

Place” with my grandparents. “Just 
before bedtime” of the night of that 
day my grandmother called the atten- 
tion of the household to the mournful 
and unusual howls of the little house 
dog that was sitting in the front yard 
with his nose pointed straight up, cry- 
ing most piteously. 

The incident connected with that 
sad sound was destined to affect me so 


■95 


nearly that I have never lost it, and can 
hear it to-day as clearly as 1 heard it 
fifty-four years ago. In about three 
weeks after the demonstration by the 
little dog, the news arrived that my 
father, Lorenzo Dow Hawkins, to whom 
I was passionately attached, had died 
at St. Louis, Mo., late in the afternoon 
of August 27th. My kind-hearted old 
grandmother looked down tenderly 
upon me, and said, “I knew some- 
thing dreadful had happened. Poor 
child, you will never see your father 
again ! ” 

In 1854 I visited St. Louis and saw 
Dr. Simmons, who had attended my 
father during his last illness, and he 
remembered his death having occurred 
in the afternoon, probably, between 
five and six o’clock. The difference 
in time between Vermont and Mis- 
souri, would make the moment of his 
death late in the afternoon at one place 

196 


and between eight and nine at the 
other. 

Since writing this account, a doubt has arisen in my mind 
in relation to the time when the two important incidents oc- 
curred. 1 am not quite certain that the death of my father and 
the howling of the dog took place at the same moment. I do 
remember, however, that both incidents occurred about the 
same time, and I have a vague recollection of having heard my 
grandmother say, that the unusual and peculiar howl meant a 
death in the family. And when the news of my father’s decease 
arrived she expressed her belief in the certain connection be- 
tween the two incidents. 


AUGUST 12, 1864 

I N the month of August, 1864, I was 
visiting at the country residence of 
my wife’s mother, in the State of 
Rhode Island. Her oldest son, Alfred 
Nicholas Brown, was at that time stay- 
ing at the New York Hotel in the City 
of New York. His younger sister was 
the owner of, and had with her at her 
mother’s residence, an intelligent little 
French poodle of a most affectionate 
and sensitive nature. He suffered from 


'97 


the effects of the summer heat and was 
very much annoyed by the attacks of 
house flies, and in order, as far as pos- 
sible, to avoid both annoyances, spent 
the greater part of his time in a dark 
closet adjoining the sleeping room oc- 
cupied by my wife and myself. 

“Tommy” was an unusually quiet 
dog, seldom barking, and had never 
been known to howl save when certain 
notes of the piano were touched. About 
three o’clock in the morning of the 12th 
of August we heard a most plaintive and 
sorrowful howl from “Tommy” in his 
closet, which continued until he was 
stopped by being spoken to. At half 
past seven o’clock, the same morning, 
while the family were at breakfast a 
telegram was handed to the mother, 
announcing the death of her son at the 
New York Hotel at ten minutes past 
three o’clock that morning. 

The fact of “Tommy’s” howl had 

198 


been mentioned previously, and 1 am 
not quite certain if it was discussed, but 
have been informed that at least one 
member of the family had insisted that 
it was the forerunner of bad news. The 
bad news undoubtedly followed, but 
did “Tommy” obtain it in advance, 
and if he did, how ? Or was his un- 
usual howl an accidental coincidence ? 


march 8, 1871 

O N the afternoon of March 8th, 
1871, I was called to the bed- 
side of an old and intimate 
friend who resided at Newport, Rhode 
Island. He had spent six weeks of the 
winter at the Everett House in New 
York, the latter part of the time con- 
fined to his room, and when I saw him 
he was very near his end. 

Our friendship was very close and 


'99 


of many years standing, and we had 
had an understanding between us 
to the effect that the one who sur- 
vived the other should inspect, and, 
at his discretion, destroy, letters and 
other private papers left by the one de- 
ceased. 

In pursuance of that understanding 
my friend handed me a package of keys, 
and requested me to take the boat that 
afternoon for Newport, to go to his 
house, to open his safe, to look over 
his letters and other papers, and to de- 
stroy such as I might think ought not 
to be preserved. 

I arrived at Newport at one o’clock 
the next morning, and drove directly to 
his house. As 1 opened the front gate, 
a hundred feet or more from the front 
door of the house, his Irish setter dog 
“Charlie ” came bounding down through 
the lawn to greet me. When he dis- 
covered I was not his master, he showed 


200 


signs of great disappointment, but, 
when he came to realize that 1 was 
an old friend, he was better satisfied. 
The servants let me in, and i went to 
rest in the bed usually occupied by 
my absent friend, "Charlie” taking his 
usual place upon and at the foot of the 
bed. 

In a seemingly short time,— about 
four o’clock, 1 was startled from a 
sound sleep by the most unearthly 
and weird moan l had ever heard. In 
a moment I discovered “Charlie” sit- 
ting up upon the bed with his nose 
pointed to the ceiling, in great agony 
of mind, pouring forth with all his 
strength the uncanny wails of a broken 
heart. I spoke to him, but did not 
succeed in quieting him until all the 
servants in the house came to the room 
to ascertain the cause of such an un- 
usual disturbance. 

At seven o’clock 1 received a mes- 


201 


sage telling me my friend had passed 
away at ten minutes past four o’clock 
that morning. 

During every moment of my entire 
stay at Newport, “Charlie” was always 
at my side, and could not be coaxed 
away from me, and, when I departed 
the next evening, he went with me 
to the wharf, and resisted our separa- 
tion almost to the point of biting the 
servant who was to take him back 
to the house. 

During the six weeks of his master’s 
absence, “Charlie” slept outside the 
front door, ready and hoping to greet 
his master whenever he might return, 
as was his custom, by one of the Sound 
steamboats. 

I need not write that this unusual 
incident left a lasting impression upon 
my mind. 1 have never attempted to 
solve it and never shall, as 1 am quite 
satisfied that it was an example of 


202 


natural phenomena entirely beyond my 
comprehension. 

The chief character in this narrative, 
was a most quiet, dignified, and gentle- 
manly dog. During my six or seven 
years of intermittent intercourse with 
him, 1 never knew him to do an un- 
gentlemanly act. He was a veritable 
Chesterfield among dogs, and his noble 
and gentle bearing was a model even 
for men. He was also the most beauti- 
ful of his race, perfect in his combina- 
tion of colors, for he had many all 
perfectly blending into an artistic and 
harmonious whole. His intellectual 
qualities were quite in keeping with his 
physical beauties. His forehead was 
large, indicating a well rounded and 
well developed brain, which was de- 
posited between a pair of the most 
beautiful large, soft, brown, and ex- 
pressive eyes imaginable. 

He had never been taught tricks of 


203 


any kind, but, by the application of his 
natural understanding and constant 
reflective observation, had gradually 
developed a rare amount of exact intel- 
ligence in relation to many things. 
This rare intellectual development was 
largely due to his constant companion- 
ship with his master. In the field, the 
road, the stable, the bedroom, the din- 
ing-room, and at the table, he was 
usually addressed and treated like a 
human being. At the three daily meals 
he had his napkin adjusted to his neck, 
and sat at the right of his master, and I 
think it may be written of him that, 
although his table manners were of the 
dog sort, wherein the tongue played 
the most important part, they were 
unexceptional, and that he was never, 
known to commit a breach of good 
table manners. 

Next to his master, 1 was his oldest 
and most intimate friend. Often, when 


204 


the former was away, I was left in charge 
as the head of the house ; on such occa- 
sions “Charlie” would adopt me as a 
substitute for his master, but upon his 
master’s return he would leave me and 
resume his accustomed intercourse with 
the friend who, to him, was superior to 
all others. He walked with me when- 
ever ordered to do so by his master, but 
not otherwise ; 1 could not coax him 
even to a short promenade. 

Not having been in Newport at the 
time, 1 cannot write of his conduct there 
while his master was ill in New York, 
but was informed by the servants that 
he was always, night and day, on the 
lookout for his return, and that they 
often experienced considerable diffi- 
culty in coaxing him into the kitchen 
for his meals. They arranged for him 
a comfortable bed near the front door, 
where he passed his nights, while his 
days were spent in anxiously watching 


205 


at the lawn gate, in the vain hope of see- 
ing the loved form of his kind master, 
whom he was never to behold again. 

This was a rare instance (though 
probably not among dogs similarly sit- 
uated) of affection and devotion. But 
then the chief actor in the pathetic little 
drama was ONLY A DOG. 

This loving dog, however, in his 
simple and direct way, silently, but not 
the less effectually for all that, taught 
human beings a lesson, showing an ex- 
tent of unselfish fidelity and affection 
which they would do well to imitate. 

In closing, I may repeat what Sir 
John Lubbock once said, that at some 
future time, twenty thousand pounds 
would be offered as a reward to any one 
who would teach a dog to talk, and that 
then the world will be astonished to 
learn how insufficiently the knowledge 
of man’s most disinterested friend has 
been appreciated. 


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